Friday, 16 May 2008
Boys
Now I would like to question, why is it that when you enter a club full of athletic boys in Melbourne it is brimming with potential whereas going to a club with the equivalent crowd in Brisbane and you have to scan the room a number of times before settling on a guy who you would perhaps consider. After recently visiting Victoria I have decided there is definitely a difference in young males even between the two states. Is it in the water? Is it the way that they dress and present themselves and perhaps that they take more time deciding on what shirt to buy because the stores in Melbourne are more expensive? Or is it just my fascination with athletic, AFL players’ figures that leaves me drawn to the Melbourne boys’ arms rather than their faces. The Victorian males have the ability to make young girls freeze in minimal clothing whilst waiting in long lines to get into clubs in Melbourne weather to vie for the male attention. The Queensland boys on the other hand don’t get nearly the same reception with most girls turning to jeans by mid autumn even with the warmer weather. And it certainly wasn’t my intoxicated state as it is certainly hard to get beyond a sober state on a budget down in the southern state and even after the cheap basic spirits on student night in Brisbane, the Melbourne boys still win hands down. All in all, girls, if you like a boy who’s morning routine consists of more than putting on whatever on the floor passes the sniff test then perhaps a trip down to the Victorian state may be just what is in order!
Stupid car I have ever had
My ride is so sweet but stupid. When I realised it, it was two years ago when I went back to my country.
The day before I go back, the car was slowly down and stopped on the middle of road. So I pushed it to my friend’s house.
All the time I wash my car, it rain straight after washing or next day. How many times I wash my car and save the Australian water level.
Just couple mins before my best friend birthday, I was driving with him on the Coronation road, and suddenly smoked up and did emergency stop at a petrol station. And we spend his happy birthday at there…
Finally I am going to sell my car due to return to the home. Checked it and got inspection to have a road certificate. It all passed but just 2 days ago, my car was stopped in the middle of the city, and towed to mechanic.
I have to sell! What the hell! You are so dull!
But I like it. I love my car. It is still sweet.
So just let you go safely…
Yoshi Kimoto
The day before I go back, the car was slowly down and stopped on the middle of road. So I pushed it to my friend’s house.
All the time I wash my car, it rain straight after washing or next day. How many times I wash my car and save the Australian water level.
Just couple mins before my best friend birthday, I was driving with him on the Coronation road, and suddenly smoked up and did emergency stop at a petrol station. And we spend his happy birthday at there…
Finally I am going to sell my car due to return to the home. Checked it and got inspection to have a road certificate. It all passed but just 2 days ago, my car was stopped in the middle of the city, and towed to mechanic.
I have to sell! What the hell! You are so dull!
But I like it. I love my car. It is still sweet.
So just let you go safely…
Yoshi Kimoto
The Try-hard
By Rebecca
Don’t you hate those people who are good at everything and don’t even have to try?
It seems that for every generation, there are certain people who are just naturally good at everything – the so-called ‘all-rounder’. They are the person who doesn’t study for a test, but still manages to ace it; the person who mucks around in Phys Ed, but wins age champion on sports day; and lastly the person who has never taken a drama lesson in their life, but manages to score the lead role in the school musical.
The question is: how do they do it?
As you have probably gathered, I am not one of those people. I am the class try-hard – I admit it. I mean, I wasn’t the square in grade eight English who sat in the front row and shot their hand into the air whenever the teacher asked a question. But I wasn’t the cool kid, who sat at the back of the class and gossiped with their friends either. I was the kid on the far left hand side of the room, in the second row, who sat quietly and did their work.
Although, is the top of the class always the most successful in life? Or will the student with the best work ethic win out in the end?
Don’t you hate those people who are good at everything and don’t even have to try?
It seems that for every generation, there are certain people who are just naturally good at everything – the so-called ‘all-rounder’. They are the person who doesn’t study for a test, but still manages to ace it; the person who mucks around in Phys Ed, but wins age champion on sports day; and lastly the person who has never taken a drama lesson in their life, but manages to score the lead role in the school musical.
The question is: how do they do it?
As you have probably gathered, I am not one of those people. I am the class try-hard – I admit it. I mean, I wasn’t the square in grade eight English who sat in the front row and shot their hand into the air whenever the teacher asked a question. But I wasn’t the cool kid, who sat at the back of the class and gossiped with their friends either. I was the kid on the far left hand side of the room, in the second row, who sat quietly and did their work.
Although, is the top of the class always the most successful in life? Or will the student with the best work ethic win out in the end?
A - La - watch your cutlerly buddy
On the surface she seems charming, well mannered and sweet. Upon sitting on down she is graceful and doting – you let your guard down, relax (the waitress isn’t going to judge you). But do not be deceived. The a-la-carte waitress is a two-faced, devious, breed – one never to be taken for granted.
I am the kind of waitress that will walk away sniggering at the incorrect usage of the ‘bug cracker’ or the ‘oyster fork’. She does bitch about your outfit, your pronunciation of the work pappardelle, and she will always scoff at your meagre tip.
We a-la-carte waitresses are a sensitive type of person. You may think your request for a new glass of wine is just – after all there is a fly floating in it. You may think your request for a new glass was worded thoughtfully, your smile warming, and your manner empathetic. You may think your waitress is ‘only too happy’ to get you that fresh bottle. You may even think her lingering smile was her way of asking for your phone number. Well, let me assure you – it was not.
A common misconception among young men (particularly those that aren’t paying for their own drinks) is that a waitress who is happy to get you a beer, is happy to have your hand on her ass. In fairness, I can understand that a female willing to race back and forth from the bar all night with schooners of Extra Dry does seem like a crack on, but shoving a $20 bill in her hand and preventing her from accessing the kitchen door will not get you a date.
But in the end, despite our nuances and peculiarities, we are appreciative of a good customer. You know, the kind that understand entrée cutlery is on the outside of the main. The kind that finishes all of their food and most of all the kind that’s out before nine. If you are this kind of customer, we will think of you fondly every time a child spits in our face, or a supercilious old women ‘poo poo’s’ our service.
It’s the gay waiters you really have to watch.
I am the kind of waitress that will walk away sniggering at the incorrect usage of the ‘bug cracker’ or the ‘oyster fork’. She does bitch about your outfit, your pronunciation of the work pappardelle, and she will always scoff at your meagre tip.
We a-la-carte waitresses are a sensitive type of person. You may think your request for a new glass of wine is just – after all there is a fly floating in it. You may think your request for a new glass was worded thoughtfully, your smile warming, and your manner empathetic. You may think your waitress is ‘only too happy’ to get you that fresh bottle. You may even think her lingering smile was her way of asking for your phone number. Well, let me assure you – it was not.
A common misconception among young men (particularly those that aren’t paying for their own drinks) is that a waitress who is happy to get you a beer, is happy to have your hand on her ass. In fairness, I can understand that a female willing to race back and forth from the bar all night with schooners of Extra Dry does seem like a crack on, but shoving a $20 bill in her hand and preventing her from accessing the kitchen door will not get you a date.
But in the end, despite our nuances and peculiarities, we are appreciative of a good customer. You know, the kind that understand entrée cutlery is on the outside of the main. The kind that finishes all of their food and most of all the kind that’s out before nine. If you are this kind of customer, we will think of you fondly every time a child spits in our face, or a supercilious old women ‘poo poo’s’ our service.
It’s the gay waiters you really have to watch.
Viva Emptiness by Matt O'Neill
I was watching Garden State recently, directorial debut for Scrubs stalwart Zach Braff, and ruminating upon its various themes and Natalie Portman’s remarkable ability to make a thoroughly annoying twit an endearing character, and an interesting quote appeared.
“I’m okay being unimpressive. I sleep better.”
This somewhat contradictory celebration of unassumingness immediately brought to mind author Kurt Vonnegut’s Kilgore Trout, a hapless, possibly brilliant, perpetually cursed author, who, in Vonnegut’s masterful Breakfast of Champions, travels to an arts convention purely to show the sheer unrewarding pointlessness of being an artist.
The final association (and I promise it’s the last one), in this triumvirate of unremarkability, is Mr Meursault from Albert Camus’ existentialist text L’Estranger (I read it in English as The Outsider, but I feel French adds a certain cultural gravitas to my opinions), who is so indifferent to concepts of impressive and unimpressive, he eventually shoots an arab, utterly indifferent to the results of his actions (sorry to ruin it for you, but you all should read more anyway).
The uniting thread, I find, for these three characters is utter mediocrity. It has become increasingly the case throughout our times that we celebrate the weird, the unusual, the freaks and overlook the sheer beauty of the dull and the cliché.
There’s a great moment in Oscar Wilde’s Importance of Being Earnest where a Jack bemoans the company he keeps (namely, the witty Algernon) “Why must you be so clever, the world is full of being clever, whatever happened to the fools?” to which Algernon replies “there are still scores of fools, old chap” or something similarly Wilde-ian and Jack asks
“What do they talk about?”
“The fools? Why the clever people of course,”
“What fools!”
Such is the predicament we find ourselves in today, across various spheres of cultural engagement. We live in a world of democratised media presence; myspace, youtube, facebook etc all provide even the most mundane and mind-numbing of cretins to launch their career. You can become famous merely for being a horrible, horrible singer and having the conceit to film your inadequacies in action.
The result, ideally, would be to get a complete picture of culture, from the woefully unusual, to the woefully normal, but instead, everyone needs an angle, either to perform or to view performance. Big Brother 08, instead of slotting in some truly trying individuals with no personality, do just the opposite and, by unifying their nutjobs, actually become just as mundane.
Andy Warhol once hypothesised that everyone would have fifteen minutes of fame in the future, but the problem is everyone seems to be aware that they are having their fifteen minutes, or are perpetually scared of their fifteen minutes occurring and them not knowing it.
I suggest we stalk people and then give them fifteen minutes to address the world on camera, and then film them for an additional hour without telling them. Then we’ll get the really solid, beautiful, boring stuff and not have to worry about all this contemptible uniqueness.
“I’m okay being unimpressive. I sleep better.”
This somewhat contradictory celebration of unassumingness immediately brought to mind author Kurt Vonnegut’s Kilgore Trout, a hapless, possibly brilliant, perpetually cursed author, who, in Vonnegut’s masterful Breakfast of Champions, travels to an arts convention purely to show the sheer unrewarding pointlessness of being an artist.
The final association (and I promise it’s the last one), in this triumvirate of unremarkability, is Mr Meursault from Albert Camus’ existentialist text L’Estranger (I read it in English as The Outsider, but I feel French adds a certain cultural gravitas to my opinions), who is so indifferent to concepts of impressive and unimpressive, he eventually shoots an arab, utterly indifferent to the results of his actions (sorry to ruin it for you, but you all should read more anyway).
The uniting thread, I find, for these three characters is utter mediocrity. It has become increasingly the case throughout our times that we celebrate the weird, the unusual, the freaks and overlook the sheer beauty of the dull and the cliché.
There’s a great moment in Oscar Wilde’s Importance of Being Earnest where a Jack bemoans the company he keeps (namely, the witty Algernon) “Why must you be so clever, the world is full of being clever, whatever happened to the fools?” to which Algernon replies “there are still scores of fools, old chap” or something similarly Wilde-ian and Jack asks
“What do they talk about?”
“The fools? Why the clever people of course,”
“What fools!”
Such is the predicament we find ourselves in today, across various spheres of cultural engagement. We live in a world of democratised media presence; myspace, youtube, facebook etc all provide even the most mundane and mind-numbing of cretins to launch their career. You can become famous merely for being a horrible, horrible singer and having the conceit to film your inadequacies in action.
The result, ideally, would be to get a complete picture of culture, from the woefully unusual, to the woefully normal, but instead, everyone needs an angle, either to perform or to view performance. Big Brother 08, instead of slotting in some truly trying individuals with no personality, do just the opposite and, by unifying their nutjobs, actually become just as mundane.
Andy Warhol once hypothesised that everyone would have fifteen minutes of fame in the future, but the problem is everyone seems to be aware that they are having their fifteen minutes, or are perpetually scared of their fifteen minutes occurring and them not knowing it.
I suggest we stalk people and then give them fifteen minutes to address the world on camera, and then film them for an additional hour without telling them. Then we’ll get the really solid, beautiful, boring stuff and not have to worry about all this contemptible uniqueness.
Alco-pop tax ratified
Worthington Syndrome hits home
Alex Leggett
Yes, Joe Hockey was right. Champagne doesn’t make you any more drunk than a Vodka Cruiser. I’ve tried it. Although this wasn’t real champagne - I think it was from a Spanish supermarket. I now have a severe antipathy for both parties, which is as easier than downing a Waterfall. And I now share a social antipathy to binge-drinking fiestas that get out of hand and soon you’re face is being splashed all over the news like Corey Worthington, and reaping piles of cash for it. Why not? However, I’d rather plunge into a Scandinavian lake than be interviewed by Anna Coren. Let alone, be condescended to and forced to take off my sunnies.
The Rudd government was going to receive a $1.3 billion revenue from their new legislation that would supposedly put nation-wide halt on binge drinking. However, it won’t stop the hoards of drunkards that swarm on Caxton St after a match at Suncorp and turn to ripping roof tiles off when they are no longer served at around 3am. Residents take cover and cower under their beds when this sort of rebellion turns ugly.
What ever happened to having drinks at dinner and the family? It’s a great way to build immunity to imposing legislation that little to no effect on peoples’ social habits. You get to insult your family and no one remembers it. Great. Just a few bottles of red later you’re lying on the grass outside, rolling around with your grandad and recanting strange accounts of war, when things were sparse but happiness was aplenty. Alcohol may become sparse, but, there is still an overriding joy in binging at home.
Alex Leggett
Yes, Joe Hockey was right. Champagne doesn’t make you any more drunk than a Vodka Cruiser. I’ve tried it. Although this wasn’t real champagne - I think it was from a Spanish supermarket. I now have a severe antipathy for both parties, which is as easier than downing a Waterfall. And I now share a social antipathy to binge-drinking fiestas that get out of hand and soon you’re face is being splashed all over the news like Corey Worthington, and reaping piles of cash for it. Why not? However, I’d rather plunge into a Scandinavian lake than be interviewed by Anna Coren. Let alone, be condescended to and forced to take off my sunnies.
The Rudd government was going to receive a $1.3 billion revenue from their new legislation that would supposedly put nation-wide halt on binge drinking. However, it won’t stop the hoards of drunkards that swarm on Caxton St after a match at Suncorp and turn to ripping roof tiles off when they are no longer served at around 3am. Residents take cover and cower under their beds when this sort of rebellion turns ugly.
What ever happened to having drinks at dinner and the family? It’s a great way to build immunity to imposing legislation that little to no effect on peoples’ social habits. You get to insult your family and no one remembers it. Great. Just a few bottles of red later you’re lying on the grass outside, rolling around with your grandad and recanting strange accounts of war, when things were sparse but happiness was aplenty. Alcohol may become sparse, but, there is still an overriding joy in binging at home.
Thursday, 15 May 2008
Slow walkers - the snail paced menace
Okay we all know who they are, we’ve all been stuck behind them at some point, heck some of you are them! Yes those oh so annoying, gliding along at a glacial pace, weaving from side to side making it impossible to overtake and then randomly stopping dead in their tracks and pausing pensively trying to recall what they were doing in the first place. I’ll tell you what you’re meant to be doing, fricken moving! Not standing in the middle of the aisle with your feet planted wide causing a human pile up behind you. Slow walkers really piss me off. When I’m out and about in the shops I actually tend to have a purpose, I’m not just wasting my Saturday strolling along with my uncontrollable spawn running headlong into oncoming pedestrians whilst covered in an unidentifiable sticky substance. Take your brood to the bloody park if you want them to run wild and loose. Don’t take them to the aisles of the supermarket and let them run amok whilst you stand with an oversized pram the size of a station wagon smack bang in the middle of the walkway blocking the human traffic coming from both ends. It’s fine if it takes you 10 minutes to remember why you’ve come to this fluorescent lit time warp and what it was again that you needed to buy in the first place, toilet paper, canned goods, a lobotomy, whatever; just don’t do it when you’re in my way. I want to get in and out when I go grocery shopping. Unlike you I don’t want to waste hours in this soul consuming twilight zone trying to buy the essentials. But you haven’t yet grasped this concept. Here’s a tip; stick to the side of the aisle, leave way for those of us that actually know where we’re going and want to get there quickly.
Regards, Fast walker.
Regards, Fast walker.
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