Beautiful McMansions

I knew there was something about this guy that liked.

Why did I not know about this in 2005? Probably because I did not know about Little Britain?

Absolutely amazing. Two of my faves in one.

No more cancer sticks means I can wash my Sportsgirl skinny jeans less!

Is it so wrong that today, on my tram ride home, I smirked to myself when I saw people standing outside Long Room and Bar Open and the Cape in the freezing rain lighting up? That I chuckled silently and relished in their shivers? That I enjoyed the payback for all those summer nights with a smoky pillow and smoky hair? For all the laundry detergent I used washing things that weren't dirty? For all the (expensive) Febreeze I sprayed on my pashminas? For all the gross cigarette remnants left on bathroom floors that made me throw up in my mouth? For all the sneezes?

No, it's not wrong. Not wrong at all.

Melbs, it's about time.

Hooray!

Care Packages

I mentioned to my mother how I'd like to have another July 4th gathering like I did last year, and 'oh would you mind terribly sending me the recipe for the baked beans and potato salad? cheers!' This is what I receive, out of the blue, approx a week before 4 July 2k7:

Thanks, Martha. Stewart. Or Washington. Either one works in this situation. But not Martha Reeves. If we were at Cherry Bar then maybe.

Ahh yes this is how my family (extended and immediate -- and by immediate I mean Mama K as I am sans siblings for life) operates. Do up the social events big, y'all. Look out for forthcoming post on how party decor turned out at our party to celebrate the war of American aggression.

Also in this package were many other amazing things, including a mix CD from Mama K. And in case you were wondering what the instructions are for How to Make Lindsay Cry 101, all you need to do is put Lucinda William's 'Are You Alright?' as track 1 and you're dunzo.

[SIDENOTE: Lucinda REALLY looks like that loud haggish woman from Big Brother. Even more so cos they both like to wear tweed newsboy caps. Sadly I was not able to procure any photos of BB evictee wearing one:





















Anyway, strategically-chosen songs about daughters and life and Philadelphia completed the awesomeness, and extra points for a song by Charlotte Gainsbourg who recently starred in The Science of Sleep with mi amor, Gael.

Also in the package:


Yes, 'Blog fodder' that says. Particularly the school board case. Manheim Township, what gives? You produce this douche and then you go and ban Maya FREAKING Angelou????? There were other positive articles from my hometown; they are not all narrow-minded conservative folk, but man oh man this kind of stuff pisses me off.

I fear that since my life just got sufficiently crazier, and I have International Visitor #7 coming in approx 1 week, my posts will be less frequent. And for that, I am sorry. I will have plenty more verve coming at you as we turn the corner into spring. THAW, AUSTRALIA. THAW. YOU CAN DO IT. Until then, enjoy the summer weather, Northerners!

And you WONDER why I want to stay?

'The leaning tower of Pizza'



'9.11.01= September 16th?'

"We're going to sleep on the St Kilda sands"

presh

It's weekends like this that make me never want to leave Melbourne. Saturday I went to Chadstone with Davis Street Massive + 'Berra guest (post to follow) and, after many other fun things which I will not explore in this space (begging a jazz band to play anything by George Clinton, a mojito, an entertaining tram ride, etc), we ended the night with mixed dips at Stalactites at 2 am:

awwwwwww yeaaaahhhh

It is not the consumerism and drunken munchies that makes me appreciate Melbs so much, however. It's mostly the afternoons and evenings on Saturdays an Sundays that make me realise how easy it would be to carve out a life here. To explain, on Sunday, we (Chadstone crowd plus The [non-British Columbian] Canadian) started off the day at another brunch establishment I've been meaning to try, all thanks to The Breakfast Blog (all thanks to my morning breakfast --literally-- Go Fug Yourself via the Bloggies Awards). Anywho, we finally went to Replete Providore (!!!), where we tried to go on Easter, and it was AMAZING. A bit of a trek out to Hawthorn, but the corn fritters and pancakes with berries were worth the sojourn. I even had a flat white to get into the Melburnian lazy Sunday spirit. Have I told my American readers about the institution that is a flat white? They don't have drip brewing coffee here; those lines of kettles all lined up in WaWa are but a distant memory to me, *sigh*. They only do it fancy style from an espresso machine (even in Starbucks, ask Housie), and a flat white is the default drink you receive if you simply say 'I'd like a coffee.' According to Mama K and Papa T, flat whites are mighty milky, as coffees go. Who knows? But it can be delicious when you're feeling slightly Parisian and not normally a caffeine-hound:

After a lemon slice to go (shortbread bottom, SHYEAAAHH!!), I bid my brunch companions adieu to board the 16 to St Kilda to meet former Housie, Liv. It takes about 45 minutes to go half way down this tram's route, so it's obviously a winding and long journey. I went through Toorak (cue obnoxious high school girls with side ponytails, Bettina Liano jeans, and conversations about having a party and being 'found out' by mom who installed cameras in the basement [as one does when one is a mother in Toorak]), Caulfield, Balaclava, and other suburbs until somehow, I ended up on Acland St, St Kilda.

I believe I was going past Caulfield Park when a rush of 'I Love Melbourne' came over me. A man was selling flowers out of an old-fashioned I love Lucy silver campervan; bunches of colour sat in pots in front of his truck, and he read The Age while he waited for customers. A hundred metres down, a father and son played footy while their dog was tied up to a flagpole looking like he wanted in on the action. A group of teenagers waited on a bench to board the tram. I half expected Paul Kelly to burst into song to complete my perfect Melbourne moment.

So I end up in Acland Street to wait for Liv to arrive and decide to sit on the bench beside Luna Park:

We then went up to the arts market (oh man when I get my paycheck I'm so buying that giant earring/necklace holder) and then went down to the water:

Livvy Livvy Livvy Livvy rockin everywhere

Whilst on our little walk along the water, we witnessed, quite possibly, no, definitely, one of the top 5 most adorable things I've ever seen in my life (perhaps behind puppies tilting their heads when you scold them and babies sneezing). If you can't see from the first photo in this post, a 20-something dude was strolling, arm-in-arm, with his 80-something grandmother. Here's a close-up:

good on ya, mate.

And as Liv pointed out, he wasn't 'doin it for the glory,' for some random American girl to snap a photo and post it on the internet. He just seemed to walk along, not noticing anyone else, helping his Nan. Beautiful.

We then made our way to the Vineyard, a staple pub in Melbourne because of its location. The Community Cup had just finished, so it was, as they say, 'going off!' I went to the Cup last year, but this year it kind of snuck up on me and I didn't make it. We shared 3 Coopers Pale longnecks and shot the proverbial breeze for 3 hours. Thank God for heat lamps. Glooooorious.

We then made our way up Inkerman St to Harro's (across from the infamous establishment at which we spent Halloween) to indulge in what we were told is 'the best pizza in Melbourne.' I might have to agree. A red wine, chock-a-block pizza, and Liv's company? Alriiiiight on a Sunday night... I love Melbourne : )

The freaks come out at night

the birthday gang

My public transport experiences are as varied as the twists and turns Yarra Trams takes around all the nooks and crannies (Gram-a! Gram-a! Look!) of this fair city. Through my many journeys on Metlink's fleet of buses, trains, and trams, I've witnessed arguments, fights over the telephone, intolerable body odour, obnoxious grandmothers, obnoxious school children, charming elderly people, creepy starers, coughing fits bordering on TB-proportions, men and women on ice (the drug, not next to a Zamboni), Aboriginal people yelling over land rights, drunk old men singing, drunk women singing, drunk teenagers giggling, drunk 20-somethings sleeping, drunk 30-somethings pretending they're not drunk. You get the picture. When you're inebriated, you tend to take public transport, which, I have to admit-- it's a good thing. At least it means you're not cruising down the Monash Freeway at 100 Ks/hr.

I also believe that the winter months brings out the---the how you say... The Crazies. I guess it's the weather, the difficulty to 'find a park,' as they say, in the CBD. Whatever it is, in between all the wintry sniffles and sneezes, I am noticing the clientele of Yarra Trams gets weirder.

After a lovely Sunday arvo and evening spent with wonderful people, I wanted to get the crap home. I'm a working girl like woah this month, and I needed to plan for the week-- plan my lunches, plan my outfits, you know. The Fates were not hearing my pleas, unfortunately. I was privileged (sarcasm) to ride with one approx 62 year old drunken man on this particular Sunday night on the 55 tram back to my house. As soon as he gets on, we realise there's Trouble. At first I thought he was harmless, spent a few too many hours with VBs at the Pokies, and somehow has managed to get on the appropriate tram (good on him given his state of mind, hey?). When he started telling everyone to "f**k off" and "get f****d" and nearly started a fight with a middle-aged African man, tram-goers got a little 'meehhhhh' bordering on 'aaaaaaaahhhh.'

We then proceeded to stop at Lonsdale Street for approximately twenty minutes to wait for the police to arrive. Only, we didn't quite know what we were waiting for, as the driver couldn't make an announcement like 'The cops are coming to pick up this crazy man' or anything. A teeny Singaporian girl next to me went up to the front to ask the driver what was going on (after I asked the driver to shut the doors 5 mins earlier cos it's bloody freezing these days, mate), and as she made her way back, the man called her a"f*****g sl*t." Lovely. She then informed me what was going on [SIDENOTE: Victoria Police, what gives? What are you guys all doing on a Sunday night? Texas hold'em? Watching Rove? Trivial Pursuit? Why did it take you 20 minutes to get to Lonsdale St from Victoria Market? Pretty ridiculous, fuzz].

It was right about then (after some slurring about the Sherlock Holmes book his seat-partner was reading) that McCraze decided to bust out a little Yusaf Islam. Yes indeed, when you're drunk on a tram on a Sunday night, you CLEARLY start serenading your fellow passengers with Cat Steven's Father and Son. I believe he was trying to channel 'Just relax, take it eeeeeeeeeasy.'

On a Friday night coming back from Northcote, a 20-year-old-ish couple sat across from me (pseudo Goth/pseudo IT geeks with tragic clothing. Yes, I'm making sweeping generalisations). They talked-- for 20 minutes-- about Second Life and computer games. When we went past a Transformers poster, the girl told the dude she was the blue one, and he said she must be the other one, and they started talking PDA-style indiscernably into one another's faces.. It was at this moment when I really wished I had a tape recorder, but I guess some things just have to be experienced first hand. It also makes me think 'WELP there's someone out there for everyone.' And that is a comforting feeling for all the people out there who wore Airwalks and computer watches in high school. And all of us, let's be serious.

Back to more Crazies. On my way to the city the other day on the 19, a (Cambodian?) woman had a kitten in a zip bag that she called 'her baby' and said 'don't worry we'll be home soon' about 14 times in a 5 minute span. Whilst waiting to board the 112, a chain-smoker informed me he had a vision three years ago there would be a drought. And when he wrote the government to tell them, they never responded. Even more shocking is that they never called to thank him when the drought hit to say he was right. Can you believe it?! How dare they? He then said John Howard was racist, to which I happily agreed. That shut him up. I'm pretty sure he thought I was a Liberal (big L, not little), what with my leather gloves and point shoes and corporate wear. I'm simply a well-dressed Left Winger, thanksverymuch.

When my parents were here and we took the 109 coming back from IKEA (hollaatcha Princess and the Pea bed), a bearded white man paced up and down the aisle singing 'We're on a sloooowwww boat to Chiiiiiina.' I couldn't decide whether to laugh since, yes, it was mighty slow, or ignore him because he was ripping on all the Asians in Melbourne as we barrelled down to Little Saigon, Richmond. This is the problem with Crazy. How do you know when people are genuinely being funny and when to just back away slowly?

I can, however, tell you a time when people are being genuinely funny: when they've drank too much Fruity Lexia. Half of Davis St Massive was not convinced that is all they partook in that night (ahem), but it's just speculation. All I know is, I had to take a photo right then and there to document the funniest people I've ever met in my life on public transport. A whirlwind conversation of El Salvador, Oasis, and goon makes all the Crazies seem worth while.

"Wheredyou get dis from Lizzy? Meheeka?"

Max loves to wear my cowboy boots...

and eat chicken schnitzel on his Shrek plate.

"Look at ma face. AmIbovvered?"

A swanky labyrinth of intrigue and delight awaits you

Ahhh yes, I love South Melbourne. The Victorian homes, the leafy alleys, Clarendon Street, Melbourne's "French Quarter," Father Bob, Town Hall Trivia... it has it all. All that, and an old Victorian home/shop converted into what can only be described as a caberet-theatre-cum-cocktail-lounge filled with tchachkes floor t0 ceiling run by two gay men who love to play said Caberet covers of Hit Me Baby One More Time and Blue by Eiffel 65 and run Burlesque and drag shows in the front room. Or, as the website puts it, "this doll-house sized Windsor Castle of camp kitsch and good times has to be experienced to be believed."

I am speaking-- of course-- about the Butterfly Club. And when my American comrades come visit, they will most certainly experience its glory. Sadly, visitors in '06 did not get to enjoy a Sparkling Sunset cocktail or bask in the glow of the fireplace underneath the creepy, creepy doll collection, because of tight time constraints, but for the RFL and others-- I am making it top priority.

What was meant to be a quick evening catching up with Housie's former housemate + GF:















turned out to be another one of those nights I so love: eating and drinking with a motley crew of Aussies.

We were meant to see the show "The Divine Miss Z Sings the Divine Miss M." Truth be told, we were unsure if this was going to be a drag show. The image on the website was misleading:













Is this a tranny? Is this an abstract/Andy Warhol-ised headshot of Bette circa 1977? So many questions... For a variety of reasons, however, namely, da funds, we all opted to get some drinks instead [SIDENOTE: Catching a glimpse through the theatre's cracks upon our departure ensured we weren't missing much... she was 100% woman. Where's the fun in THAT?!] and chitchat in the back area (underneath the life-size Hustler doll; I'll spare you an image). After our cravings for burgers consumed us (perhaps this is because these are currently the contents of my fridge and pantry: hard-boiled eggs, yoghurt, condiments, crackers, and Weet-Bix), we walked down to the Town Hall (trivia nights!) to find it was $10 burger night! Scorehuge!

And because I told myself I would make this blog as dissimilar to a journal as humanly possible, I will stop describing my night right there. Just know it's nights like these that make me never want to leave.

I'll put some more pictures of the Butterfly Club because really words do not do it justice.

DOLLS!!! AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!




















it's a bar; there are tables and stools





















and obvi mini pagodas and 18th century portraits and Victorian wing chairs






























giving my chock-a-block bedroom a run for its money





















very camp: Ken Doll party inside a Mann Chinese Theater of sorts

So many puns, so little time

King of the Wild Frontieeerrrrrrrr!

Cousin Chick, about whom I could write appropximately 8,953 blog entries, provides me with much entertainment. Much, much, much entertainment. More than I could really get into on this space. But perhaps will eventually. He wears many hats, as I always say. LITERALLY. Chick LOVES costumes and props and acting and comedy, and he only just turned 8.

He plays Gaelic football (huh?), takes Karate, used to take Irish dance (but would never perform for me when I babysat him), and is currently a Cub Scout. He knew the name for all the dinosaurs when he was six. He could retell the story of the crucifixion in preschool ("Poor baby Jesus, you don't know it, but one day, they're gonna nail you to a CROSS") and loves to sing about the snows of Mt Kilimanjaro (which he knows are in Africa). He referred to himself as a "Pachyderm Papa" when Aunt Amy adopted an elephant for him at the Philadelphia Zoo. You see the comedic material here?

I have just been informed (via a purposefully-Comic Sans e-mail from his mother-- OH, CHEERS! NOT.) that he was Davy Crockett for Biography Day at his school (he features on that page obvi), of which Anna Quindlen is a notable alumna. His ex-girlfriend was Amelia Earhart:























Yes, ex. It seems Chick just doesn't have time for the ladies, what with all his extra-curriculars.

Inspiration

Haven't had a good cry in a while?

Simply purchase the Choir of Hard Knocks CD on Itunes (might have to sign in via Australia) and listen to Put a Little Love in Your Heart and Not Pretty Enough (Kasey Chamber's, yeah!) and the tears will flow. Promise. But not sad tears-- more like the tears I experience when I watch Dove's Campaign for Real Beauty commercials or read an article about the US southern town that adopted 20+ Sudanese refugees or Good Weekend's Just the Two of Us about a couple who survived the Holocaust and have been married for sixty years. You know, tears of joy... for the beauty of humanity.

I've missed their show on ABC basically the entire season cos I pretty much didn't know it existed until recently. A shame because everyone heralds it as "THIS is reality television." I blame our craptastic aerial and finicky indoor antenna... Some of the members are well known from selling the Big Issue (UK version cos Oz doesn't seem to have its own website) around town, and some are new to the spotlight.




















33 year old Josephine McKinnon (theage)

Everyone certainly has a story to tell. One woman's husband died five years ago and is now having trouble finding after-school help for her son who has Asperger's. Oh, and she's been blind all her life. She told the Age, "I've never had a more accepting bunch of people around me."

Amazing.

Homesick, PLAYAS

I do get homesick being down here in the Antipodes; it's true. Besides missing my amazing friends and family (obv), there are certain things I really long for after being away from the US for approx 484 days, including, but not limited to, the following:

• Hip-hop lifestyle pervading the mainstream
• WaWa hoagies, soft preztels, and cappucinos
• Quality bagels
• Pumpkin as a sweet, not a savoury
• Jewish delis and kosher pickles from the barrel
• Triscuits
• Cheesesteaks
• Blue Moon
• Yuengling
• Victoria Secret Very Sexy For Her Perfume
• Cheap generic ibuprofen in bulk
• 'Click' deodorant
• Gap
• H & M
• J Crew
• Ann Taylor
• The self sufficiency of my own car (rollin the Honda)
• Non-erratically scheduled television
• Cheap movies (that premiere at the same time as the Northern Hemisphere)
• TLC, MTV, A&E, Comedy Central

The thing that I also miss-- that prompted me to compose this list-- is something I never really acknowledged I liked in the first place. At the stadium where I work, there is general order to the pre-game entertainment. And since I have to stand on an aisle for two hours before the game starts and before most people arrive, I pretty much have this schedule down pat.

1) Britney's Spear's version of 'My Prerogative;' random country singer's verion of 'I Hope You Dance;' Justin Timberlake's 'What Goes Around Comes Around;' Ciara's 'Goodies'
2) last half of an AFL game from 1-3 years previous, features two teams set to play that day
3) the same commercial for Foxtel played approx. 12 times
4) commercial for Toyota
5) safety announcements
6) club offers
7) that bloody Foxtel commercial again
8) classic Australian song of which I do not know the title

And the most important moment in that entire list? The one that swallowed me in a mini rush of homesickness?

Freaking Ciara.



















I literally was like "Aw, Ciara! Senior Year! Nick's phone ring! Sad"

And it's not that I actually miss trashy southern crunk/misogynistic rap music, per se. It's just that I miss watching Cribs and witnessing southern rapers waste their money from their first album on a giant aquarium and tacky leather couches, or being around people who might want to start their own gold teeth business, or dancing to sistas like Ciara at houseparties, or watching Freestyle Friday on 106 & Park.

It's the possibility of hearing Ciara on the radio that I miss, and the hip-hop culture in general. The Aussies are soo not having that down here.

And I have a theory on why that is so, based on nothing empirical whatsoever. There is something here called the Tall Poppy Syndrome, whereby people who have 'made it' get knocked down by the masses for, well, making it. It's a bit of a Catch-22.

For instance, before his wife died and everyone was paranoid about making any bad comments about him, Rove McManus got a bad rep for 'selling out' and hosting his own show on a big time network. Thing is, he put in the hard yards, or as they say here (disregarding the letter R), 'the hahd yahds,' on community TV and worked hard to get where he got.

Still, people are all 'Waaaaah, he's famous! Waaaaah!' Sort of the Hollywood pasttime of building up celebrities so we can bring them down (which we are quite happy to do, I might add), but with a more populist, anti-snobbery approach.

Which is why, I believe, Aussies are not so down with rappers, particularly ones flaunting gold teeth and new money. Boasting is a core component of hip-hop-- it has been since the beginning. You boast about your neighbourhood, your car, your girlfriend, your money, your jewellery (they spell it with 2 Ls here!). It is just not in the Australian collective blood to brag. They are notoriously self-deprecating and laconic, leaving no room for rappers to do their thang.*

Well, as that voice on Little Britain says when referencing Emily Howard or Daffyd Thomas, 'takes all sorts I suppose.' It is what makes Australia Australia. And if that means there won't be too many blokes walking around with gold teeth, well, I guess that's alright with me.

*There are Australian rappers, but as I've said before, their street cred is hard to sell to a savvy US listener. But props where props are due: I enjoy The Hilltop Hoods, and they redid their entire Hard Road album with the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra (a la my precious Ben and his orchestral tour of Oz). And we did see sime fairly good MCs at First Floor the other night, didn't we? Haha

A Sartorial PSA

LEGGINGS

ARE

NOT

PANTS.

They belong to the hosiery, not the trouser, family.

This includes you, 16-year-old female St Kilda supporters who think it's acceptable to wear a larger(er) jersey and your cute new black Wittner boots to the footy. Put on some PANTS. It's cold outside.

Thanks very much.

I love this man. Full stop.

I have no idea where I'll be February '08 financially or physically, but I can honestly say that emotionally and musically, with every sinew and fibre in my being, I will be wishing I was with Ben Folds on a freaking 5-day magical musical cruise.

I'm still RSVPing for the presale.

Madre, perhaps a masters degree regalo? I gave you the address to this here blog a mere 24 hours ago. Coincidence? Not likely.

Two gay things I would love to see but cannot afford

A drag queen tour of Sydney, Priscilla Queen of the Desert Style! (or the musical at Star City, for that matter) AU$135 ($79-99)

The Great Outdoors did a piece on this tour last night (also makes me want to go to Thailand with the RFL). Clearly it was all women on the tour because, sadly, drag queens and trannies make dudes uncomfortable. I'm guessing they do a lot of Hens nights.

Regardless, I do love the nightlife, I like hearing about the seedy bits of Sydney's history, and I think I have the balls to wear a gigantic purple wig on the steps of the Opera House. Maybe next time I visit Ush for the weekend I can rope her in? She'd definitely be up for it.





Ian McKellen in the RSC's international tour of King Lear at the Arts Centre (where I saw Ben Folds with the MSO) AU$99-159

I just read a feature on Sir Ian in Good Weekend, and he is definitely a bit of an enigma. He has Shakespeare written all over him, but he felt like a failure until he received commercial fame from Lord of the Rings. Who knew?

Regardless, he is so grandfather-y and lovely I would really just like to see him live on stage. But the student income is getting in the way...

"It is analogous to showing up for a black tie event in a clown costume."

This poor unsuspecting country girl joined Housie and I in a vino-induced (yeah cheap market bottles!) conversation last Saturday re: the propogation of Helvetica in the corporate world; the childishness of Comic Sans; and why Palatino is significantly clearer than Times New. Apologies for bringing typeface to house parties. Eeeeee.

You know those certain 'I told you so' moments that people relish so much? Like when they make drunken wagers concerning the singer of 'Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?' using Hoegaarden as collateral and then win? Or when they warn a fellow girlfriend about a dude's general suckiness only to mutter those four words when said fellow girlfriend is crying into a pillow due to said suckiness? Or when they blog about a font and then MoMA up and runs an exhibit about it? And Gary Hustwit (holla that sweet documentary about Wilco) produces a film about it? And Slate.com publishes a slideshow on it?

This is exactly how I feel after posting about Helvetica and fonts in gen; it's nice to feel The Proverbial Man giving you a pat on the back and whisper: "I agree, young lady." One particular posting struck a chord (from the article about which fonts authors write in and why):

Anne Fadiman: "My favorite fonts are unrepentantly anti-Helvetican. Most of my books have been set in Walbaum, which sounds like a chain store but is in fact an early-19^th-century font designed by Justus Erich Walbaum, a German punchcutter whose luscious serifs may have been influenced by his early apprenticeship to a confectioner. When I was the editor of the American Scholar, we set our text in New Baskerville and our titles in Mrs. Eaves*, a neo-letterpress font based on types by 18^th-century English printer John Baskerville and named after the woman who was first his housekeeper, then his mistress, then his wife. Mr. Baskerville and Mrs. Eaves interacted gracefully both in life and on the page. Although it's a thrill to see my words printed in such elegant fonts, I'd never actually write in them. I'd be afraid that my prose would become too precious, like that of a student of mine who, until nudged toward something more prosaic, refused to compose in anything but Garamond. I attempt to counter my natural tendency to overwrite by printing out my work in an aggressively foursquare version of Times Roman, one more heavily inked than Times New Roman or CG Times. It exists only on Hewlett-Packard #92286P, an obsolete font cartridge that plugs into an obsolete printer. When my printer dies, my beloved font will die as well."

So see? People do give more than a second thought to which font they write in. Granted, these people are writers by trade, aka they can eat and buy clothes with their earnings. Still, we're getting somewhere.

*I particularly like the back-story of Mrs Eaves (which we learned about in class); props to the bastardised women of history.

"Vince"

My hatred of Comic Sans has not lessened since I last posted; if anything, it has worsened. I have since been made privy to various heinous uses of the CS:

• an official letter from the Canadian government demanding money
• a power point presentation from a reputable 60-something public health professor
• restaurant menus
  
• corporate newsletters

But... Rejoice! I have also been injected with a welcome dose of You Are Not Alone thanks to a glorious new website to which Slate provided me a link: "Ban Comic Sans."

AMEN. I plan on buying some pins for Housie and me, perhaps even printing off my own stickers guerilla style and implementing my own viral marketing campaign in the alleyways of Melbourne (just next to the rotting fish, VB bottles, and St Jeromes).

Ban Comic Sans puts it like this:

"Like the tone of a spoken voice, the characteristics of a typeface convey meaning. The design of the typeface is, in itself, its voice. Often this voice speaks louder than the text itself. Thus when designing a "Do Not Enter" sign the use of a heavy-stroked, attention-commanding font such as Impact or Arial Black is appropriate. Typesetting such a message in Comic Sans would be ludicrous."

They also likened Comic Sans to my circus comment (see post title). Ha! "I told you so."

Don't Melbourne the Toast

Years ago, I read an article in a non-descript magazine aboubt a woman in her 50s who became swamped with clippings her 70-something parents cut out for her from the newspaper. They would constantly cut out articles they thought said daughter would find relevant/intriguing/amusing, write the date on the back, and bring them over to her house or send them in the mail. Some were quite pertinent, but some, well, weren't. They clipped so many articles that said daughter/magazine reporter felt she had enough content to whip out a human interest story, and she wrote it in a light that made her parents come out looking a tad kooky instead of a tad 'Put on a hat- you'll catch a cold' endearing.

Though I am not 50, Mama K (and to some extent, Papa T... the softball championship article was WELL documented, laminated, and sent my way) is already turning into one of these Zeitung hoarders (that, and the current affairs chain of command is generational: Grandparents Killian pass along back issues of Newsweek and People at family functions; my family's starting to sound OCD-Russell-in-A-Beautiful-Mind. Eeeeee).

I suppose it's a bit apples and oranges since I now live in a foreign country; you might simply say my mo(/u)m is simply trying to keep me connected with my Motherland in a topical and light-hearted way. I certainly hear about all the bad news via every other news medium. Man, does a large portion of the world HATE US. Still, in every US Mail package I receive, there is inevitably some kooky local advertisement or news article (in addition, of course, to the requisite engagement announcement of someone with whom I graduated high school. Congrats, Marilyn, Bethany, Laura, Jill!).

The latest box was no exception. I have been waiting with bated breath for the arrival of new brown boots (it's starting to get cold and rainy), decent eyemakeup remover, and Schick Quattro razor blades. You can imagine my glee when I found those items and so much more (cute leopard print ballet flats! Proenza Schouler for Target fabulous tank and jacket! enormous earrings! concealer! skinny dark rinse jeans! big ups, Mom!). The kicker has been the ads/articles she's chosen to include.

1. A JCPenney ad for kimono-style shirts paired with leggings. She then wrote "ew! ::sad face::" with an arrow pointing to the cropped jeans (they were hein), and "tops are cute though!" beside the Asian-inspired billowing tops.

In the last box o' fun my mom sent me, she included a kimono-esque silky top. I love the colours, but when I tried it on, I really felt like Ziyi Zhang. I jokingly told her this year I could easily be a Geisha for Halloween (Halloween '07 gon' be off the CHAIN! Yeah, housie!). Well, my mother has clung onto this comment for dear life and likes to reference frequently how popular kimono-style tops are in America at the moment since she feels my comment implied I wouldn't wear the kimono in a normal social setting. Well, she was right.*

Plus, using a JCPenney ad to prove your point is doing you any favours, Madre.

*I have been searching for a still of Lauren Graham from the Ellen show the other day. I happened to catch her on Foxtel (Lucia, bless) and she was wearing what amounted to be, a kimono dress (only A-line and CUTE AS). She mentioned it was from Madonna's line for H & M. If this trend inches south of the equator during the winter, I might just be ahead of the game.

2. beautyspy from Lucky magazine: "rosebud cheeks" with a paragraph about Coach's new fragrance on the reverse (PS, now you know 1/10 of my Christmas wishlist).

Nothing to see here, really. I do enjoy rosy cheeks/looking alive and I adore Reed Krakoff.

3. Article about Amy Winehouse being a mess.

Tell me something I don't know.

4. Article about Susan Sontag's posthumously released essays.

I guess every mother thinks their child will grow up to be a world-famous writer? That and the fact that Sontag supported Rushdie relentlessly during the fatwah; Mom knows how much I love The Ground Beneath her Feet. Props.

5. Vertical advertisement for OPI's Australia Collection: Free-Spirited and Fabulous!

Something about which I have pondered entirely too often in my spare thinking time/ditzball moments is this: how do makeup (and nail polish) companies come up with "new" colours each season? For that matter, how does Nike or Adidas come up with new spiffy-looking sneaks? The technology remains the same. I guess this is where I lose faith in marketing departments and start to feel swindled (slash I refuse to read advertorials), even though I-- like all young independent women-- totally fall for packaging sometimes. Have you ever bought anything from Benefit?!?!?! My God! Cutest ever!

Yes, there are millions of potential colours to be produced in an RBG scheme, but most of them are indiscernable by the human eye. Not only indiscernable, but seriously, crimson red is crimson red is crimson red. Call it Red Hot Ayers Rock, or You Rock-Apulco Red, or some other ridiculous pun, but no woman in the world can tell the difference.

All that being said, I really like Fair Dinkum Pinkum and Suzi Loves Sydney, but couldn't come up with a fun pun relating to the Opera House, could you, OPI? Who the H is Suzi? Perhaps Luna Park After Dark for the wine shade. I could work for you. Give me a call.

I can manage yo' investment portfolio, jigga!

(ohnotheydidnt)

Makes me laugh.

Holding out for those conjugal visits

convicted serial killer Carl Williams who will *fingers crossed* leave jail in a pine box (theage)

They say Victoria is called "The Garden State" because there are so many underworld figures buried beneath its soil to make it so green. I'm not so sure that's right-- based on a few theories (not the least of which is the long-term drought and Stage 4 water restrictions we're on at the moment) and the fact that, let's be rilll, it's more of an urban legend. But I will admit I was shocked at the level of violence this state has produced stemming from organised crime.

I saw Chopper when I was 20 in my attempt to view all seminal Aussie movies* during my stint in Adelaide , but I didn't realise how the "Gangland" violence between 1999 and 2003 pervaded the psyche of Melburnians, how 27 people were killed all up, and the fact that one murder occured in front of a youth footy clinic.

Still, apparently some chicks dig these men that were responsible. And not in the AC Slater superficially bad boy sense, but in the Jason from Laguna Beach/Pete Dougherty/drugged out sense bordering on the allure of Tony Soprano/full-on murderer sense. GIRLS! What the crap? I read a long article in Good Weekend last winter about the lawyer Zarah Garde-Wilson and her willingness to help obviously helpless and/or pathetic men. The writer attempted to make sense of why she chose her particularly sordid bedfellows by exploring her past, but when it came right down to it, there was really no satisfying explanation. Normal girl, normal--down right privileged-- upbringing, and straight down the path of low-cut tanks and Louis Vitton sunnies on her way to court to defend a known murderer or drug dealer.

And how did Carl Williams snag the blonde babe while he was in court? His estranged wife is all beanie-wearing/converting to Islam/yelling at everyone/nutbag, and this gorgeous, young blonde girl rocks up to court to lend support to a man about to be sentenced to life? LADIES, WHAT IS THE APPEAL (no court humour pun intended)? Is it Williams' babyface? Is it the stacks of cash buried under the shed? These men are MURDERERS. Nothing more and nothing less.


*The Castle was ticked off at age 17; Picnic at Hanging Rock and Gallipoli (pre anti-Semite Mel) are waiting in the wings; I've physically MET Kenny at the Sunshine cinema (BEAT IT); and I've seen every episode of Kath and Kim (plus special features, deleted scenes, and the telemovie). I could go on, but I feel I have the major films covered.

Oz Music Sampler: Vol. 1 2007

Top 40 in Australia has some interesting darlings: Ne-Yo and Akon seem to consistently crack into the top commercial charts, but no one really gives a crap about Kanye. Carrie Underwood, who? but they love Daughtry and Hinder (excuse me, I think I just threw up in my mouth). On a bit of an anecdote, P!nk (greater Philadelphia's own) has had more number 1 hits in Oz than any other country. And damn girl sure does practice what she ghetto preaches; Housie, Davis Street Massive and some Canberra visitors were graced with her presence while they devoured some delicious chocolate drinks in the city. No, she was not indulging in zee Chocolate Fire; she was getting her fake tan on. The healthy way, I am pleased to report. Tan in a can and no cancer beds. WeSHEW P!nk, I was worried you were gonna go all "Stupid Girls" on me and I would have had to go all Cancer Council on you and remind you that you are not, in fact, Joe Simpson's daughter. Too bad I missed her "mizundastoodness" whilst she and her entourage were in the CBD, as I had to house my chocolate smoothie and scurry off to work.

Regardless, Australia still puts out some great music by their own home-grown. Instead of sending all you, my (mostly) American audience, a heap of Aussie songs at the end of the calendar year, I thought I might throw some examples of songs that are popular here at the moment (or have been in the first quarter of 2007) by Aussie artists. They should all be on Itunes:

20 Good Reasons
Thirsty Merc











They use this for commercials for Lost.

The Others (TV Rock Mix)
Dukes of Windsor









BOYS! LOOKIN fo' LUV! GIRLS! LOOKIN fo' LUV!
This song is so freaking Melbourne.

Straight Lines
Silverchair











Oh midlle school. Oh Daniel Johns. Oh anorexia. Oh that rainforest tree fog that I will always associate with Silverchair. Good news is he's married to Natalia Imbruglia now, seems a lot happier, and his songs sound a lot less angsty.

Lost and Running
Powderfinger









They're baaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaack!! YAY. Dream Days at the Hotel Existence out 2 June.

Steer
Missy Higgins










One of mah theme songs of LIFE. I love her.

Enjoy, Yanks. I expect some ridiculous hard-core rap in return for my services.