Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Fuck you, phone monkeys!

For the last four days, I have been waking up at stupid o'clock every morning, trudged my arse through morning traffic to QUT and produced various news stories for the uni's radio station.

I would like to vehemently state that I want to be a print or online journalist and want no part in this broadcasting tomfoolery whatsoever. Please feel free to slap me over the head with a novelty-sized giant fish if I ever say, "I think I'll go for a radio job..."

(I'm listening to my own story on the radio at the moment. I'm doing the entertainent wrap-up but I sound like I'm reading a eulogy).

Anyway, enough of my lack of radio prowess and the fact that I don't sound like Sandra Sully. I would like to talk about phone monkeys.

My news stories were written at the very last minute, making deadline (or not) by a hair. A nose hair.

It wasn't because I'm a slow writer (or slow in the brain even). It was because it would take at least two hours to finally get someone on the phone.

Here's how 95% of my interviewing went...

Phone monkey: Hello?

Me: Hello, I'm Ellie from QUT News and 4EB radio. I'm putting together a story on cheese smuggling and was wondering if I could talk to the Minister of Cheese.

Phone monkey: What is this about?

Me: Cheese smuggling

Phone monkey: For who?

Me: QUT News and 4EB radio.

Phone monkey: He's in a meeting.

Me: Oh... do you know when it will be finished?

Phone monkey: No. But I can put you through to our media representative.

Me: Okay, sure.


Ring ring...ring ring...

Media representative: Hello, Captain Twat, media representative of Twat Enterprises, how may I help you?

Me: Hello, I'm Ellie from QUT News, blah blah blah.

Media representative: I'm busy. Can I call you back?

Me: Sure, our phone number is blah blah blah. If you could call back before 11 o'clock (before deadline, you smarmy motherfucker) that would be great.

Media representative: Okay, sure.

Many hours later, ten minutes before the story is going to air and after I've picked a completely new story altogether...

Ring ring... ring ring...

Me: Hello QUT News, Ellie speaking.

Media representative: Hello, it's Captain Twat here. I'm ringing you back to tell you that I don't want to be interviewed.

Me: ... great. Bye.


And this happened even, I shit you not, when I was putting together the entertainment wrap-up. I went through a secretary and two media representatives before I got onto one fellow who said that he was not allowed to be quoted to the media. Considering that all I wanted to ask was what was happening at the museum this weekend, I find it all to be a bit ridiculous.

The only times I got a good interview was when I somehow managed to get a hold of the source's direct line and talked to them first, without the secretaries and PR bastards in the way telling me that everybody I want to talk to is overseas, interstate, in a meeting, or can't talk to the media. Even then, this one woman I talked to was so sour and grumpy (because talking about farmers' markets is a sensitive topic apparently) that I didn't end up using her grab for fear of her voice destroying the souls of anybody who listened to it.

So, fuck you phone monkeys.

Thankyou for making my job harder.
Thankyou for telling me I can read what your CEO said on your website, even though I just told you I'm doing a radio news story and need an interview.
Thankyou for being an absolute bitch for no reason. I hope you tell your boss about it and he fires you on the spot for not letting him talk on radio.
But mainly, thankyou for inspiring me to seek news stories from community groups, activists, and real people in the future rather than go through the bullshit of bureaucracy at a government level.

Monday, October 6, 2008

It's a book for your face.

Ah, facebook. I got one last year because a friend of mine wanted to show me some photos. For some reason I could only view them on facebook. Go figure. And my facebook profile was born.

Facebook is an endless source of amusement. Not because I play Dope Wars or send sheep to people or whatever, but for the social aspect of it all. That news feed tells you everything, from where people went on the weekend to if their relationship is complicated or not. Fascinating.

Here are some things that amuse me about facebook:

1. The hot friend in the profile photos
I have most of the girls in my grade added to facebook. There is one particular girl who was rather popular back in the day (and still is I suppose). Pretty and smart, heaps of people wanted to be her friend. So I couldn't help but giggle when I noticed that about five or so girls on facebook had this particular girl in their profile picture. Perhaps they were hoping they would appear pretty and popular by default? Or maybe some random facebook babe would add them? That would be a strange conversation.

"You look beautiful in that photo."
"Oh, why thankyou."
"You have really cool blonde hair."
"Oh, no, that's my friend. I'm the fatter, greasier, pimplier, less attractive one on the left."
"...oh."

2. Passive-aggressive status updates
I saw one the other day saying something like, "[name] wishes SOMEONE would get off their lazy arse". I have a hunch that the person they were talking about was their housemate. Who is on their friends list and, via the News Feed function, would have seen it.

I now realise that this entire entry (nay, this entire blog really) is pretty passive-aggressive in itself. But that's okay, because I'm a dirty hypocrite.

3. Um, who are you again?
I occasionally get a friend request from someone I have never seen in my life. On closer inspection and a bit more stalking, I usually find out that we have a very tenuous link - usually
that we went to the same school but weren't in the same year and never once spoke to each other or socially interacted in any way.

Why? I just don't understand. Why would you want to communicate with someone who was two years above you in school? It's bad enough when girls in my grade add me, and they're people who I either didn't talk to or thought I was a freak. Ah, the joys of an angsty youth...

4. Facebook addicts who are obviously new at using the internet.
There was a fellow who added me a while back. He was a regular at my work. Anyway, I had to end up deleting him because I had about 200 requests from him to grow plants, send chocolate, take sexy quizzes etc. And then there were all those SuperPokes. Innappropriately dirty ones too, which was a bit worrying. On closer inspection, I realised that he sent the same things to everybody on his friends list.

What's the point? If I had accepted all of his requests, my profile probably would have crashed and the internet would have exploded. It's not cute or fun to do 200 facebook things; it's annoying. I use facebook to send messages, upload photos, play poker and stalk people. That's it. I really cannot be bothered to join a facebook mafia or race cars or grow teddy bears or whatever.

5. Friendship: DELETED
You know you've really pissed someone off in this day and age when they delete you from their friends list. OH NO! Now who will I throw Pokemon at?




And I haven't even gotten started on myspace. It's more or less the same really, though you tend to see more passive-aggressive bulletins. And more weird friend requests. Please enjoy viewing this person, who attempted to start a myspace friendship with me.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

On hiatus

Just letting you all know that I'm not going to be blogging, facebooking, myspacing, etc for a while.
Basically, I ruined my own life through something I'm not going to be able to forgive myself for and I'm far too ashamed to be sociable on the internet at the moment.

I mean, I'll still be online for my fix of stupid YouTube videos and things like that but I'm mainly going to be lurking. If you have a pressing need to talk to me or send me gratuitous hate mail, my msn and e-mail address is ellie.freeman@gmail.com

Wednesday, September 3, 2008

a must-read for every man on the internet

“I’m looking for a lady in public, but a shameless hussy in private.”

This tender line was written in a 50-year-old man’s RSVP profile. Clearly, he knows the way to a girl’s heart.

My good friend Jasmine and I have a great hobby: combing through profiles on online dating sites and laughing at the terrible ones.We do this because we’re horrible, horrible people.

But really, if you’re a balding goth that craps on about Norse mythology, or you upload a photo of your obese, hairy self wearing only tiny rugby shorts, you really should expect to be laughed at.

I must say, I’m glad that I’m not single and to the point where I’m trawling these online dating sites, otherwise I’d be extremely depressed. The good men are obviously socially interacting in the outside world and the other ones are trying to find a lady on the ‘net.

Anyway, profiles tell a lot about a person. I’ve learnt to read between the lines and see who the real man is behind “a nice guy looking for the girl of his dreams”.


1. On Interests
A lot of profiles are quite insistent on “an active lifestyle”. Basically, there seems to be a lot of single jetskiers/rollerbladers/tennis players/etc looking for love. And they’re looking for a lady to do all of that with. Here I was thinking that these guys were looking for a root, but they’re actually really looking for a chick to play badminton with.

Manblading can disturb your perfectly balanced beer, not to mention your libido.

What he’s trying to say: I’m not a fat nerd that sits around on the net all day, even though I’m on a dating site.
Reality: NO FAT CHICKS.

On the flip side, a lot of online dating wannabes also mention that they don’t like going out to pubs/clubs and would rather stay at home and watch DVDs. Now I have nothing against that, but its said like us pub-going folk are horrible sleazy people who will be lonely for the rest of their lives, because they like have a schooner or two down at their local. That's not true! Only about a third of pub-goers are sleazy, lonely old men.

What he’s trying to say: I’m a gentleman because I don’t get wasted and grind up on random ladies. I’ll even watch girly movies with you. How sensitive and lovely of me.
Reality: I probably can’t handle my liquor.

I find this very depressing because I am not an active lady and I enjoy tequila shots.

2. On being a gentleman or a nice guy
Based on personal experience, nearly every guy who says that they’re “gentlemen” or “nice guys” are the complete opposite. Be wary of words like “chivalrous”. Sure, the gentlemen of old did nice things like open doors and pull out chairs, but then again women used to be exchanged for real estate and people used to think the world was flat. So-called "gentlemen" often do not understand concepts like women standing up for themselves, having lives of their own and enjoying themselves without having dinner bought for them. They're about as fun as going out with your Dad. If your Dad was the dude from 10 Things I Hate About You.

“Nice guys” are a different kettle of fish altogether. You know those guys who whinge that “nice guys finish last” and neglect the fact that their wooing techniques are outdated, annoying or just plain creepy? Rather than go on about it, I shall direct you to this incredibly accurate livejournal entry on the topic.


“Romeo! Romeo! GET THE HELL OFF MY BALCONY BEFORE I SLAP A RESTRAINING ORDER ON YOUR ASS!”

Let’s just say that I’ve met my share of “nice guys” and “gentlemen”. They’re all the same. They disguise themselves as super sensitive guys for some reason, because apparently, as a woman, I’m into guys who spend more time crying and styling their hair than I do.

You know what I like? Guys who don’t need to explain how nice they are and just do it naturally. It’s like when people have to explain a joke; if it needs to be explained, it’s probably not funny.

Indeed, why do girls go for the bad boys?
Because they’re better in bed.

What they’re trying to say: I’m a gentleman and a nice guy.
Reality: Women exist to be girlfriends and make my life complete. I’m going to buy you flowers and if you don’t praise me like a god and let me have sex with you, I’ll stab you in the face. Oh no, where are you going? Please don’t leave me, I love you. FOREVER.

3. On coming across as mentally unstable
Online profiles are hard to write. How do you really capture the true essence of your being in a few words?

There’s a golden rule of dating that says: Don’t talk about the ex on the first date. Some guys seem to cancel themselves immediately by talking about the ex and other such heartbreak on their profiles.

Seriously, when I was single, a few prospective internet daters decided preface them asking me out by telling me their girl problems. The bitch that fought with him, the whore that manipulated him, the beautiful woman that rejected him, the “women are awful” rant…followed by “So, wanna go out sometime?”
What do they reckon girls would think? “Ooh, he’s a misogynist with emotional baggage. Take me now.”

They’re usually the same sort of guy as the “nice guy” above. Watch out!

What they’re trying to say: I’m a beautiful, wounded soul with a broken heart that only you can heal.
Reality: I’ve got issues.

4. On what they’re looking for
Obese, crusty old men with neckbeards have no right to specify that they’re only looking for a slim, attractive, possibly Asian woman ten years younger than them, and that bigger girls need not apply. End of story.


Beware the dreaded neckbeard!

What they’re trying to say: I like pretty ladies.
Reality: I have unrealistically high standards.

5. On being a wanker
I’ve only come across a select few of these profiles but they exist. Basically, they’re indie dudes who pride themselves on not being conventionally masculine and patronising anyone who is. Their favourite movies/music/books reads like somebody compiled a list of alternative pop culture to namedrop in order to sound cool. They effectively patronise people by saying things like, “if you’re the type of girl who ‘lykez having fun wif her friends lol’, don’t talk to me.”

If you’re the type of guy that wears berets and ‘adores post-modern arthouse movies and T.S Eliot’, don’t talk to me.

There was a fellow that Jas and I looked at who rambled on about how his dream girl has to match his level of intelligence. It’s a long story, but basically this fellow was going to ask me out over myspace, despite the fact I’ve never met or talked to him. I seem to attract a lot of unstable men, for some reason. Anyway, said fellow is coincidentally in some of my uni classes (small world again); his “intelligent” contributions to the lectures are so utterly banal that I’m embarrassed for him. Imagine if I had gone out with him! I can't see that relationship lasting beyond a single wanky comment in a lecture, followed by me throwing my laptop at him.

Again, if you have to explain to people that you’re intelligent, you’re probably not.

The irony of this is that no matter how intelligent and cultured and so goddamn different you try and appear to be, you can’t escape the fact that you’re advertising yourself for romance on a commercial dating site.

What they’re trying to say: I’m a very interesting person.
Reality: I have a massive ego. Massive. My god, I just do not understand why women don’t flock to me at the thought of my enormous, throbbing…brain.

6. On Being "Open Minded"

What they're trying to say: I am open minded.
Reality: I like kinky anal sex.

And I haven’t even gotten started on the women. They’re more or less the same anyway, but without neckbeards. That’s a blog for another day…

And with my powers combined, I am… A BAD DATING PROFILE!

"Why don’t girls like nice boys?”
Hi, I’m a nice guy looking for a nice girl. A nice girl is someone who is nicer than my ex-girlfriend, who is a SELFISH BITCH WHORE WHO NEEDS TO DIE.

I’m into paragliding, lacrosse and curling. I’m looking for a girl who likes doing all these things with me. I hate going out to bars, clubs, parties, or any event where people are talking and smiling and whatnot. When I’m not paragliding, playing lacrosse or curling, I like watching DVDs at home.

My favourite movies are anything foreign and anything that David from The Movie Show likes.

As you can see in the picture, I have auburn hair, brown eyes and broad shoulders.

I’m a chivalrous gentleman who is into holding open doors, buying dinner and not letting you vote. Drop me a line ;)


Who I'm looking for:
I’m looking for a girl who is petite, has the body of Jennifer Hawkins, around ten years younger than me and can keep up with my witty, intelligent banter.



DISCLAIMER IN CASE YOU MISS THE POINT OF THINGS AND ARE ABOUT TO SEND ME AN ANGRY COMMENT ABOUT HOW HORRIBLY SEXIST I AM:
This isn't a rant against ALL men. I quite like most men, and I find I get along with the opposite sex better than other women. Most of them are kind, fun and wear nice cologne. This is an entry mocking men who are obviously trying too hard in the dating game and put ridiculous things on their profiles that drive women away without them realising it. And I think some women are pretty stupid too. Just so you know.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

this short story doesn't have a title. hope you like it though.

Nothing to report. Here's the short story I wrote for one of my classes - with bonus author's notes!

Sue was lucky. She got to wake up next to the man she loved every single morning. “Good morning, darling,” she whispered, gazing into her lover’s eyes.
Takeshi Sato, singer of Japanese rock band Cold Hearts (and undercover ninja), was silent as Sue beamed at him. His dark eyes stared back, slightly obscured by his long, silver hair. A samurai sword hung from the studded belt around his hips. He held a spiky, red guitar in his gangly arms. Sue sighed, patting her miniature true love affectionately. It was well worth spending that little bit extra for an authentic Takeshi Sato action figure on eBay Japan. Such care was taken to carve Takeshi’s slender yet muscular torso: the thin singlet hanging off his shoulders, and the intricate buckles adorning his pants. No Western toymaker could ever truly capture his delicate, fragile beauty.


Takeshi is based on Sephiroth from Final Fantasy VII - a character that turns anime fangirls into rabid, drooling beasts.

Sue stretched her arms as she got out of bed, which was covered with a pretty blue Cold Hearts doona that she bought last year. She moved a large poster flag of Takeshi Sato away from the window, letting the morning light shine in on her bookshelf. In chronological order was her collection of the Cold Hearts manga comics, from Issues 1-50 – except for Issue 49, which was rare. It apparently featured a sex scene, death and an illegal drag race. Anybody lucky to have it cautioned other fans that Issue 50 was not understandable without reading Issue 49. Sue hoped again that somewhere under the piles of discounted manga comics at NihonCon, Issue 49 would be ready for the taking – at any cost. Sue needed it. She’d spent so many years following the story of a young, talented, good-looking musician who constantly battled with bad producers, evil robotic groupies and the ghost of Jim Morrison, all the while trying to lead a normal life as a high school student. She had to know how it all ended.

The Cold Hearts anime calendar featured a bold red circle over tomorrow’s date. Sue eagerly crossed out today’s date. The NihonCon – a convention for fanatics of Japanese pop culture – was one sleep away! Held in the big exhibition hall in the city, NihonCon was a plethora of stalls selling manga comics, anime DVDs, video games and merchandise. Every year, Sue would save up money she earnt from her job at the bookstore to buy all the new Cold Hearts stuff she could find.

There were also competitions at NihonCon. This year, Sue was entering the Cosplay Competition. For the uninitiated, cosplay is the art of dressing up in the costume of a character in pop culture. The more elaborate the costume, the better. She had nearly finished sewing her costume of Midori Osaka, Takeshi’s love interest in the series. Sue couldn’t help but think how remarkably similar they were; Midori and Sue both had blonde hair and blue eyes. If she wasn’t a Year 11 student in Australia, Sue would definitely be a petite, sixteen-year-old Japanese schoolgirl with psychic powers, like Midori.


As well as being a rather pleasant melon flavoured liquer, I got Midori's name from Guitar Hero.

And of course, her true love would be Takeshi Sato. The difference was that Sue was much smarter and mature than Midori; she’d go out with Takeshi in a second, get married, have his silver-haired children…

Sue switched on her stereo, which already had the Cold Hearts Original Soundtrack (in English) in the CD player. She decided to play the album from Track 1, “Shadows of my Soul”:

In the dark night, I bleed
It is your love I need
To bring light to my window
And take away my shadows



I had a H.I.M song stuck in my head when I was writing these lyrics. Go figure. No offence, H.I.M fans.

Sue paused as she poured milk into her cornflakes, letting herself get immersed in the mournful tune. His deep vocals were beautiful, soulful… sexy. Behind that striking voice was a troubled, lonely man with the burden of fighting against the evil organisation, TokyoPopCo. A lonely, devilishly handsome man that needed the love of a kind woman to bring a smile to his face.

The best part about the cosplay competition was that the winner would be awarded a prize by Takeshi himself. Well, not quite – he was the voice actor for his character in the anime. Sue spent hours imagining what he looked like. She came to the conclusion that he looked like – no, he was – Takeshi Sato himself. There was no other alternative in Sue’s mind. Surely, the possessor of that dark, yet beautiful voice could be no one else.

“My soul is a never ending, sha-a-dow,” Sue sang, as she sat down at her computer with her breakfast.
She checked the updates of her favourite websites. The Takeshi Lovers message board was fresh with new questions and arguments. Sue checked for reviews on her 44-chapter fanfiction, Heart of Gold. It was an epic love story between Takeshi and an original character - a fan named Susie. Takeshi was captivated by her beauty; her sparkling, azure ocean eyes were set on creamy porcelain skin, peering out from beneath her long, sunshine-golden hair. He spent his every moment daydreaming about kissing her, even writing lengthy love ballads. It had just gotten to the point where Takeshi had finally asked Susie out on a date.
“I really don’t think Takeshi is the type to fall totally in love with your ridiculous character. Even if she’s thin, busty, blonde and can travel to the astral plane at will,” said user ColdHearted01.
“Shut up,” was Sue’s angry reply. Some people could be so rude.
After checking for updates on the message boards (“What do you think Takeshi’s favourite sushi is?”), Sue sat down to embroider Midori’s school emblem on her blouse.

--

For what must have been the hundredth time that morning, Sue pulled the elastics out of her hair and fixed them into higher pigtails. Like most anime characters, Midori’s hair defied gravity and logic by having her pigtails pinned to the very top of her head. NihonCon was crowded, as usual; samurais, spiky-haired ninjas, schoolgirls and the odd cyborg were frolicking about the exhibition hall, caught up in the colourful costumes and excitement of meeting other like-minded fans.
As she skipped throughout the stalls, giggling happily at nothing (staying in character, of course), Sue looked out for other Cold Hearts cosplayers – her competition. Cold Hearts had a relatively small fan following; she only saw two other Midori cosplayers and a rather poor attempt at Takeshi. People who look nothing like the character shouldn’t even bother, thought Sue as she saw the Takeshi-wannabe’s big pink ears protruding from his cheap silver wig. The other two Midori cosplayers, Sue noted, would definitely not win the cosplay competition. One of them wasn’t even blonde and the other one… shouldn’t wear short skirts, thought Sue, frowning in disgust.


This guy probably shouldn't cosplay.

She rummaged through several manga stalls in search for the elusive Issue 49. No, still not there. Oh well, maybe there would be some more merchandise for sale. A girl dressed as Sailor Moon growled menacingly as Sue tossed Limited Edition Sailor Moon Action Figures to the side of the stall.
“The Cold Hearts Cosplay competition will begin in ten minutes,” announced a voice over the loud speaker.
Sue dropped a plush toy cat as her stomach lurched. This was it! The moment had finally arrived. She pushed through the crowd towards the stage, flinging shoulders and arms out of the way as she went. Nobody was going to get in the way of meeting her true love.

The competition had already begun by the time Sue arrived at the stage. The nerdy guy dressed as Takeshi had just finished his skit. He brandished a plastic sword as he stared dramatically out into the crowd. A small group in front of the stage applauded wildly. “Thankyou, and that was Jordy, our Takeshi cosplayer,” said the announcer. “And now onto the girls…”
Next up were the two girls dressed as Midori. For the next five minutes, they skipped around the stage to the song “Daggers in my Heart”, occasionally stopping to pose. Sue shut her eyes, blocking out the sight of the ugly Midori cosplayer and concentrated on her skit.
“Our next skit is another Midori cosplayer,” announced a familiar, deep voice that caused Sue to freeze.
Takeshi! He was watching her! There was no time to look for him on the judges’ panel. Sue ran up onto the stage quickly, staring at the floor.

Although the exhibition hall was full of people, all Sue could hear was silence.

The familiar opening guitar riff of “Shadows of my Soul” buzzed out of the cheap stereo. Sue took a deep breath and shakily switched the microphone to ON.

In the dark night, I bleed
It is your love I need
To bring light to my window
And take away my shadows


Sue shut her eyes as she sang, pigtails flying, lost in the passion of the song. The plea for help, the heartbreak, the pain… her pain was Takeshi’s, his was hers, it was all so beautiful…

“Sha-a-a-a-a-do-o-w,” finished Sue, taking a ladylike curtsy and running off the stage.
The previous cosplayers clapped enthusiastically.
“Well, that just about wraps it up for the Cold Hearts cosplay competition,” said one of the judges. “And now we’ll announce the winner…”
Sue clutched the sides of her skirt. She squinted at the judge’s table off to the side of the stage. Where was Takeshi? He must be hiding behind something…
“The winner is our Midori cosplayer, Sue!”
In a daze, Sue made her way over to the judges’ table. This would be it. A comic book voucher and meeting the love of her life.
“Heyyyy!” boomed the deep voice from before. “Congrats, babe!”
Sue slowly looked up. She saw dirty old thongs and camouflage pants. She saw a pot belly strained by a garish Hawaiian shirt with topless hula girls on it. She saw long, scraggly black hairs erupting from underneath the collar. Her eyes met beady black ones, set into a chunk of pink flesh that was almost completely hairless, save for a few patches of missed stubble. He smiled and began to speak.
“Here’s your voucher,” said Takeshi’s voice.
Sue could only stare as the fat, bald, hairy man thrust a $30 comic book voucher into her hand.
“I… I…” Sue’s voice faltered.
“What’s wrong babe?” asked the strange man. “Don’t be intimidated just ‘cause I’m famous.” An unexpectedly high-pitched laugh screamed out of his mouth, causing everyone around him to jump.
“You’re not Takeshi,” muttered Sue wildly, her eyes darting around nervously. “Who are you?”
The man laughed that horrible laugh again. “Of course I’m not Takeshi, silly!” he cried. “I’m Max Sharpe, the voice actor. But hey, I sure sound like him, don’t you think?”
Sue whimpered quietly as Max launched into his own impromptu rendition of “Shadows of my Soul”. He was a good singer. So good, that Sue shut her eyes and opened them again, hoping that the real Takeshi was standing there. He wasn’t.
“No… no…” moaned Sue. “This can’t be happening!”
Clasping her hands to her face, she ran out of the stage area, through the oblivious crowd, and out the door to the street.

She fumbled with her mobile phone, trying to remember the phone number for a taxi. For a second, she caught a glimpse of Takeshi’s face – a sticker on the cover of her phone. Screaming, she peeled it off and ripped it in half.
“Are you okay?” asked a nasally voice from behind her.
It was the Takeshi cosplayer from earlier, Jordy.
“I just wanna go home,” mumbled Sue, jabbing at random numbers on her phone.
“Do you have any way of getting home?”
“No… my mum drove me here this morning but my parents don’t get home for a few hours…” Sue tried calling for a cab again, only to hear hold music. She let out a little scream in frustration.
“Hey, don’t stress,” Jordy patted her arm. “My brother’s picking me up. We can give you a lift home if you want.”
“Oh, no, it’s probably out of the way…”
“Nah, don’t worry about it,” said Jordy. “Just as long as you’re okay.”
Sue wiped away the tears from her eyes. Jordy smiled back, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“So… I can’t believe that big fat guy plays Takeshi,” said Jordy.
Sue laughed, a little too loudly. “I thought he’d look… well, a little like him,” she admitted, blowing her nose.
“He looks like The Big Pink Monster.”
Sue paused, trying to think of who the Big Pink Monster could be. Which issue was it? Which episode was it?
“You know, the one who challenges Takeshi to the drag race?”
Drag race?
“You…” Sue’s eyes widened. “You have Issue 49!”
An old red car pulled up next to them.
“I can lend it to you if you like,” said Jordy, opening the door for her.
Sue got into the car and pulled the elastics out of her pigtails.
She was lucky.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

An epic day

Two rather interesting things happened to me today.

1. I met John Birmingham.
2. I saw an awesome gig (I've become interested in reviewing as of late after giggling at the bitchy user reviews on my247.com.au, so I'm trying to write my experience in that format)

1. I met John Birmingham. You know, the author of one of my favourite books which I quite possibly count as a major influence behind why and how I write? Yeah, that dude. After he randomly came across my blog a few entries back, Dan had emailed him and asked him to sign my book for my birthday (I turned 20 on the weekend, by the way). It conveniently turned into a lunch meeting. Holy cow! I slipped into "quiet, softly-spoken and socially retarded" mode due to pure shock of meeting someone whose life I've repeatedly read about in He Died with a Felafel in His Hand and a few of his other autobiographical books. Knowing a bunch of intimate details - deeper things than you'd find on a myspace profile - about someone before you meet them is a very bizarre feeling.

Nevertheless, John turned out to be a really friendly guy and I quickly got over my "oh my god I'm stuffing my face with spicy Chinese food in front of one of my favourite authors". It was great to meet him, even though I was concentrated on not coming across as a dickhead the entire time. Hey, I guess I just don't meet many famous people.

2. Tonight was the Gyroscope concert, supported by the Shihad and Sugar Army. You know it's been a good gig when you declare to anyone who will listen that "I'm going to marry everyone from Gyroscope."

This prestigious event took place at the Arena, which I've never been to before. Performance-wise, there wasn't much to complain about; vertically challenged people such as myself had the option of viewing the bands from an upstairs area, and the lighting was meticulously perfected, which added a real bang to the show. Now I might just be being a bar nerd here, but the Arena's bar service is awful. I understand that the Arena is a music venue, not a bar, but the bar staff seemed like a bunch of random kids that were chosen for their indie charm rather than skill or experience. One girl looked positively terrified as she slowly and carefully measured out the shots, and I earned a "oh my god I can't believe you're drinking that" look of disgust from another girl when I ordered a Corona. I'm terribly sorry, should I have ordered one of the many cans of VB in the fridge? I gave up after that.


Yuck!

Oh, and the floor was sticky.

Sugar Army started the night off with what I first perceived as intense indie rock. Unfortunately, they quickly ran out of steam by the third song. After playing one of their songs that I vaguely remember hearing on Triple J, the songs all seemed to melt into an ocean of mediocrity; the highs and lows were predictable, the ambitious progressive guitar riffs didn't make sense, and the singer sang out of tune.
I was also put off by the way they danced. I usually enjoy when band members move around when performing, but this was ridiculous. The guitarist's signature move was bouncing around in a circle as though he lacked knees, while the bassist assumed a move where he looked like he was attempting the splits while pelvically thrusting at the drummer. I put this down to the fact that they were both wearing extremely tight pants.

Shihad
were on next. I admit that I don't know many songs of this immensely popular New Zealand heavy rock band, but I was greatly entertained as they made up for Sugar Army's lacklustre performance and then some. Singer Jon Toogood announced that Shihad had been together for 20 years this. That's right. This band are as old as I am, and they still bloody rock. It's great to see a band that obviously loves performing. A most impressive feat was Jon's journey into the crowd, up the stairs, pausing to play guitar over the balcony, run behind us (!!), run around to the other side of the stage and jump off a speaker stack back onto the stage. Followed by a leap into the air on the final guitar riff of the song. Brilliant!

Just when I thought that Shihad had topped everybody in the "most energetic band of the night' competition, Gyroscope ripped through a set that left me awestruck, euphoric and smitten. There's a certain harmony to explosive guitar riffs combined with the sugary sweet vocals of singer/guitarist Daniel Sanders. It's interesting to see the differences between their old and new songs; their older songs have a very strong punk influence, while the songs off their newest album Breed Obsession are more melodic, with a moody grunge feel to them. You could tell that every lyric that Daniel sang or screamed was genuine - even when he unexpectedly launched into a cover of Midnight Oil's "Beds are Burning". You could tell that there must be something special about this band when everybody in the audience sings along to every song, word for word. Gyroscope performed with a passion that left everybody smiling, hugging, dancing and reaching out to touch the amazing band members as they shook the hands of some lucky punters in the audience. Their final song, "Snakeskin", made the entire Arena turn into a moshing, singing frenzy.

I emerged from the Arena dazed, happy and full of love. Which is how everybody should feel after any good gig.


You are viewing all of my future husbands.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

And i thought Eloise was bad enough...

Look at this. Isn't that awful?

I don't understand how parents could be so selfish. I'm not sure what it's like in New Zealand, but Australian children have a tendency to make fun of everybody's names, especially if they're slightly unusual. Hell, even if they're normal! Why do you think every male in Australia has a ridiculous nickname?

My full name is Eloise. El-oh-weez. A name dating back for centuries, though it is somewhat uncommon. It is constantly misspelt, mispronounced and inspires dippy teachers to trill "Ooh, that's a lovely French name!" which is highly irrelevant, because anyone looking at me would know how French I am. It is a name that I constantly associate with annoyance.


This is the 12th century abbess, Heloise, one of the most well-known women in history with my name. Here she is writing the correct spelling of her name. "No, it's not Louise with an E, you uneducated fuckwit!"

A (not anymore) friend in primary school suddenly realised that the word "wee" was in my name. "Haha!" she screeched. "Hello ELLO-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!"
It wasn't hilarious the first time and it certainly wasn't hilarious the next ten thousand times after that. So I forced everybody to call me Ellie. Then I became Ellie Smelly. Goddammit, why couldn't I have been called Kate like everybody else I know?

But that's nothing on how much worse it would be if your name was Midnight Chardonnay. Really, I think their mother must have been sculling the stuff when she came up with that name. Pseudo-sophisticated names are awful and tend to be the product of a bogan who's trying to be classy. Schappelle and Mercedes, anybody?


Schappelle Corby was imprisoned in Indonesia for having a crap name.

I once had a friend who wanted to name her future son Bailey. Which is a nice name, except that she was naming him after the Irish cream variety (most commonly found in Cocksucking Cowboys). I thought it was quite cute at the time, but it's a bit skanky now that I think about it. Imagine going through several hours of labour, looking down at your softly, weeping newborn, and saying, "Oh, she's beautiful. I will name her Fruit Tingle."


"Mummy, where did I come from?"
"Well, I took one nip of vodka, and one nip of blue curacao, shook it in a cocktail shaker and poured it over ice with some red cordial and lemonade..."

Though I still think the worst name I have ever heard of was a woman who named her daughter Vagina.

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