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.
I'll tell you what I think
By Leigh Wayper
Well look at this list, I mean on a good day I’d say, “almost everything”.
And on a bad day? “Absolutely everything!”
Well now I feel better; in fact I’d now say, having got that off my chest, that I feel better and less likely to be pissed off than before.
Isn’t the human form wonderful? That we can change our mein by doing something that is really unconnected with the stimulus?
Another way of explaining what I am attempting to explain is… I want to move my hand, say… a bit to the right, I think, “I will move my hand a bit to the right,” and hey-presto the hand moves to the right. Amazing? Well not really; we don’t think it is amazing because it is so easily done. But when you ‘think about it’ And that’s it, isn’t it? You just have to think about it, and its done.
What on earth has this got to do with “What pisses me off? Everything. Because it seems we have lost control, the very same control that was so easy with ‘moving my hand’.
‘What a load of codswallop’. I hear you cry.
Well again, think about it, because thinking is the difference. Thinking gave me a choice of a kind. Now that I know I can do something for myself to not end up being pissed off, i.e. yelling about it or just simply saying it out loud, next time I can think, and give myself the choice to end up not being in this demise again, then just by thinking, things are indeed better!
Is that really what I think?
Let me think about it.
Well look at this list, I mean on a good day I’d say, “almost everything”.
And on a bad day? “Absolutely everything!”
Well now I feel better; in fact I’d now say, having got that off my chest, that I feel better and less likely to be pissed off than before.
Isn’t the human form wonderful? That we can change our mein by doing something that is really unconnected with the stimulus?
Another way of explaining what I am attempting to explain is… I want to move my hand, say… a bit to the right, I think, “I will move my hand a bit to the right,” and hey-presto the hand moves to the right. Amazing? Well not really; we don’t think it is amazing because it is so easily done. But when you ‘think about it’ And that’s it, isn’t it? You just have to think about it, and its done.
What on earth has this got to do with “What pisses me off? Everything. Because it seems we have lost control, the very same control that was so easy with ‘moving my hand’.
‘What a load of codswallop’. I hear you cry.
Well again, think about it, because thinking is the difference. Thinking gave me a choice of a kind. Now that I know I can do something for myself to not end up being pissed off, i.e. yelling about it or just simply saying it out loud, next time I can think, and give myself the choice to end up not being in this demise again, then just by thinking, things are indeed better!
Is that really what I think?
Let me think about it.
Sell your soul for Insurance
Julia
Recently my partner and I had our car stolen from our garage, whilst we were peacefully sleeping upstairs. It was horrible, I had to get to work and there I was walking around the garage musing to my partner, “I swear I left it here, maybe it’s on the road… No? Ok, maybe I left it at the train station… But I don’t catch the train.”
But this is not really about the car; it’s about the fact that we now had to talk to our insurance company.
Everybody hates insurance, me especially.
But my hatred is much more of a problem for me. Because, you see, I work for an insurance company. I know them inside out and back to front, I know that they really are, and I am confirming it for you now, blood-sucking, soul-stealing money rapists. I am not going to dish any specific dirt, nor am I going to name the multi-national, billion dollar company that I work for, but I am going to vent right now about how much I hate insurance.
It all began in December of 2006 when I was a fresh-faced young uni student looking for a part-time job that would pay me well. A friend of mine had recently got a job in insurance and was constantly gushing about how fun it was and how great the pay was - so I had a look into it. I got online and did a “Career” search, because Its not just I job – it’s a lifestyle! at this company, and up jumps this perfect, friendly little banner, “You are a valuable asset to our company!” (flattery goes far). Upon clicking on it a smiling employee beams from his perch upon the job offer which exclaims, “Insurance consultant and specialist wanted for policy administration, debtor support and advisory work. Must be out-going, confident and positive.”
Now, if you knew me you would agree, this did not sound like my type of thing. But, what the hell, the pay rate was listed at considerably more than anywhere else could offer me and I only had to work 30 hours a week on top of my uni schedule. Easy!
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
By the time our car was stolen I had been working for this company for over a year, I had sold my soul to this devil, and I knew that, now, I would have to deal with the evil minions that I work with. For, yes, I had mixed my personal life and work life together and insured with this company (I did get a 25% discount).
I called to lodge my claim after the police officer left and from the first, despite being staff I was treated rudely and constantly hit up for more money. When our car was recovered later that day (in Pinkenba of all places!) it was towed, at our expense, to the assessment centre.
From there it was observed by us, the car was well and truly destroyed, and taken on to an auto-mechanics at Brighton somewhere. We wanted it written off (really you should have seen it, it barely looked like a car anymore) but the company and the money-grubbing assessor we had thought otherwise. They said our car was only worth $8000 - we have a limited edition Holden Monaro, don’t ask me which one that’s my man’s domain - but apparently it is worth considerably more than that and Redbook confirmed this.
It went backwards and forwards for weeks, would they repair it? will we settle?, on and on until he finally said that he wouldn’t pay us what we asked so he would fix it. Then more drama began. Apparently the 32 nails which had been driven into the tyres were all our fault, and must have been there before the car was stolen. The cigarette burns in the interior of the car were ours too, despite the fact that neither of us smoke. And the CD player, DVD player, power converter and Playstation II, which had been painstakingly and expensively installed into the dash of the car, we were lying about; those gaping holes in the dash full of severed wires must have always been there.
Four months on we have still not got the car back, nor have we been paid any compensation for the items that were stolen… But we have paid our excess.
For someone who tries to sell car insurance everyday and assures people that “we have a speedy and reliable claims service” this is not settling well. I am disillusioned with my job and I me disillusioned with my employer as an insurer. In fact, I am taking an extended lunch break right now and will work overtime tonight to make it up, even though Thursday is meant to be my day off.
In short, they have screwed us over repeatedly, me who knows all their secrets and could make a great interviewee on Today Tonight or A Current Affair.
I hate insurance.
Recently my partner and I had our car stolen from our garage, whilst we were peacefully sleeping upstairs. It was horrible, I had to get to work and there I was walking around the garage musing to my partner, “I swear I left it here, maybe it’s on the road… No? Ok, maybe I left it at the train station… But I don’t catch the train.”
But this is not really about the car; it’s about the fact that we now had to talk to our insurance company.
Everybody hates insurance, me especially.
But my hatred is much more of a problem for me. Because, you see, I work for an insurance company. I know them inside out and back to front, I know that they really are, and I am confirming it for you now, blood-sucking, soul-stealing money rapists. I am not going to dish any specific dirt, nor am I going to name the multi-national, billion dollar company that I work for, but I am going to vent right now about how much I hate insurance.
It all began in December of 2006 when I was a fresh-faced young uni student looking for a part-time job that would pay me well. A friend of mine had recently got a job in insurance and was constantly gushing about how fun it was and how great the pay was - so I had a look into it. I got online and did a “Career” search, because Its not just I job – it’s a lifestyle! at this company, and up jumps this perfect, friendly little banner, “You are a valuable asset to our company!” (flattery goes far). Upon clicking on it a smiling employee beams from his perch upon the job offer which exclaims, “Insurance consultant and specialist wanted for policy administration, debtor support and advisory work. Must be out-going, confident and positive.”
Now, if you knew me you would agree, this did not sound like my type of thing. But, what the hell, the pay rate was listed at considerably more than anywhere else could offer me and I only had to work 30 hours a week on top of my uni schedule. Easy!
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
By the time our car was stolen I had been working for this company for over a year, I had sold my soul to this devil, and I knew that, now, I would have to deal with the evil minions that I work with. For, yes, I had mixed my personal life and work life together and insured with this company (I did get a 25% discount).
I called to lodge my claim after the police officer left and from the first, despite being staff I was treated rudely and constantly hit up for more money. When our car was recovered later that day (in Pinkenba of all places!) it was towed, at our expense, to the assessment centre.
From there it was observed by us, the car was well and truly destroyed, and taken on to an auto-mechanics at Brighton somewhere. We wanted it written off (really you should have seen it, it barely looked like a car anymore) but the company and the money-grubbing assessor we had thought otherwise. They said our car was only worth $8000 - we have a limited edition Holden Monaro, don’t ask me which one that’s my man’s domain - but apparently it is worth considerably more than that and Redbook confirmed this.
It went backwards and forwards for weeks, would they repair it? will we settle?, on and on until he finally said that he wouldn’t pay us what we asked so he would fix it. Then more drama began. Apparently the 32 nails which had been driven into the tyres were all our fault, and must have been there before the car was stolen. The cigarette burns in the interior of the car were ours too, despite the fact that neither of us smoke. And the CD player, DVD player, power converter and Playstation II, which had been painstakingly and expensively installed into the dash of the car, we were lying about; those gaping holes in the dash full of severed wires must have always been there.
Four months on we have still not got the car back, nor have we been paid any compensation for the items that were stolen… But we have paid our excess.
For someone who tries to sell car insurance everyday and assures people that “we have a speedy and reliable claims service” this is not settling well. I am disillusioned with my job and I me disillusioned with my employer as an insurer. In fact, I am taking an extended lunch break right now and will work overtime tonight to make it up, even though Thursday is meant to be my day off.
In short, they have screwed us over repeatedly, me who knows all their secrets and could make a great interviewee on Today Tonight or A Current Affair.
I hate insurance.
I Prefer Clubbing Small Animals; At Least Then I Can Wear What I Want.
I hate clubbing. I admit it.
While most of my generation, including a fair majority of my friends would argue with me to the death on this point, I just don’t see the enjoyment in it. I spent my under-age life going to punk and metal gigs and could not imagine myself enjoying this “clubbing” I was hearing my older sisters talking about. Therefore, after turning 18, I avoided it like the plague. That was until one day when I was convinced by my friends to come along and at least “give it a shot”.
Firstly, let me just say I don’t like to be told what to wear. This isn’t Nazi Germany and I should be able to wear whatever the fuck I want. Upon arriving at my friend’s house I am told “You won’t get into a club wearing that”. I look down at myself, noticing the usual T shirt and jeans, something that isn’t usually an issue. On any other day, I would give up at this point, but I am determined to at least give clubbing a shot so that when I rant about it in the future, I can’t be rebutted with, “You’ve never even been clubbing!”. I borrow my friends ‘pimping’ clothes, and we leave. Destination: the valley.
We arrive, and I enter the club only to see all my nightmares realised. Horrible music is played at a volume much louder than necessary. Creepy guys and drunken girls fondle each other on the middle of the dance floor. I see the kind of people I’ve always avoided contact with, all in one hideous venue.
I attempt to get drunk to ease my pain only to realise that only a multi-millionaire could get drunk off the ridiculously overpriced beverages they’re pushing at the bar. My friends are now ‘ecstatic’ and join in on the pulsating, alive dance floor. Desperate and alone I find a dark corner and huddle up in the foetal position.
I go home, and I kill myself.
While most of my generation, including a fair majority of my friends would argue with me to the death on this point, I just don’t see the enjoyment in it. I spent my under-age life going to punk and metal gigs and could not imagine myself enjoying this “clubbing” I was hearing my older sisters talking about. Therefore, after turning 18, I avoided it like the plague. That was until one day when I was convinced by my friends to come along and at least “give it a shot”.
Firstly, let me just say I don’t like to be told what to wear. This isn’t Nazi Germany and I should be able to wear whatever the fuck I want. Upon arriving at my friend’s house I am told “You won’t get into a club wearing that”. I look down at myself, noticing the usual T shirt and jeans, something that isn’t usually an issue. On any other day, I would give up at this point, but I am determined to at least give clubbing a shot so that when I rant about it in the future, I can’t be rebutted with, “You’ve never even been clubbing!”. I borrow my friends ‘pimping’ clothes, and we leave. Destination: the valley.
We arrive, and I enter the club only to see all my nightmares realised. Horrible music is played at a volume much louder than necessary. Creepy guys and drunken girls fondle each other on the middle of the dance floor. I see the kind of people I’ve always avoided contact with, all in one hideous venue.
I attempt to get drunk to ease my pain only to realise that only a multi-millionaire could get drunk off the ridiculously overpriced beverages they’re pushing at the bar. My friends are now ‘ecstatic’ and join in on the pulsating, alive dance floor. Desperate and alone I find a dark corner and huddle up in the foetal position.
I go home, and I kill myself.
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
Whoops I put it in the wrong blog apparently.
It's probably happened to you. Hell you've probably even done it yourself. You're in a heated debate with someone, and you get one up on them. The only thing they can manage to come up with is, "It IS that way just...because."
I was at a party on Saturday, and I was talking about my sister going to Paris for the month to my mate and this chick (I think her name was Kayla...or something) and I was saying how great it would be for her (and me - she's getting me a funny hat). She then says, "Oh, she's going to Paris..." like it's a terrible thing, almost like my sister is taking a vacation to go tanning in Afghanistan. I told her, "Well it's supposed to be a great place to have a holiday." "Nah, it's not," she tells me. I pause and ask her, "Oh so you've been to Paris?" she shakes her head and I ask her, "Then how do you know if it's bad?" She averts her eyes and says quietly, "Well, just...because. It's full of French people." I smile and nod politely.
I shouldn't have to! Why do people feel the need to argue a point they know nothing about and feel free to pass judgement? It boggles my tiny little mind. We recently had a discussion about this in a music unit at univeristy, where we were discussing Muse - well not so much the band as the fans. I am guilty of knowing a LOT about all facits of music, band history, backgrounds, lyrics etc. So yes I do know a lot about Muse. A friend of mine (who coincidently got me onto the band) was the topic of debate. I mentioned that he was a huge fan and that when I was at a Muse concert and I failed to recite every Muse song that fans adored, I was almost immediatly shunned. Pretentious fans (all wearing Muse shirts by the by) are fun.
Anyways, a girl started talking about how she encountered an avid Muse fan and that she had told him that she was a fan of the band herself. The guy then asked her what her favourite songs were, and she mentioned one of the most popular songs of their most recent album - Supermassive Black Hole. The guys reaction was remarkably similar to...Kaylee? Kira?
The guy looked at her and said, "...Oh. You like THAT stuff. I only like stuff off their first album (Showbiz)" After a little digging, I discovered that most of that album was done trying to emulate Radiohead and that most of the other albums tried to be a little more innovative. That's beside the point. This chick apparently wasn't content to be looked down at by some random Muse flunky and so she engaged him in a debate about the pros and cons of the songs she likes and that he did not. Now, most of our tutorials are based on discussions we have between eachother about the state of music today so I knew this chick was pretty intelligent. However, apparently most of the time, all he could come up with was, "Just because."
I think that the urge to connect and talk with people is too strong to overrule the person's common sense, despite the fact that they know nothing about brain surgery when they're hitting on a nurse (not me...I made a crack about the lunch menu that didn't go over well - but at least I didn't sound like a ignorant jackass). As a journalism student, I think that you shouldn't pretend to know about these things when in reality you have the jist but not the PHD because you could end up doing more harm then good. Not being an expert on something doesn't mean you have to be ashamed of that. If I go to a function, told a rocket scientist I didn't like the shape of his space ship (that sounded more hetro in my head) or I went to a cheerleading rally and told the team I don't like the shape of their human pyramid (...) then I deserve to get shunned and mocked.
It's probably happened to you. Hell you've probably even done it yourself. You're in a heated debate with someone, and you get one up on them. The only thing they can manage to come up with is, "It IS that way just...because."
I was at a party on Saturday, and I was talking about my sister going to Paris for the month to my mate and this chick (I think her name was Kayla...or something) and I was saying how great it would be for her (and me - she's getting me a funny hat). She then says, "Oh, she's going to Paris..." like it's a terrible thing, almost like my sister is taking a vacation to go tanning in Afghanistan. I told her, "Well it's supposed to be a great place to have a holiday." "Nah, it's not," she tells me. I pause and ask her, "Oh so you've been to Paris?" she shakes her head and I ask her, "Then how do you know if it's bad?" She averts her eyes and says quietly, "Well, just...because. It's full of French people." I smile and nod politely.
I shouldn't have to! Why do people feel the need to argue a point they know nothing about and feel free to pass judgement? It boggles my tiny little mind. We recently had a discussion about this in a music unit at univeristy, where we were discussing Muse - well not so much the band as the fans. I am guilty of knowing a LOT about all facits of music, band history, backgrounds, lyrics etc. So yes I do know a lot about Muse. A friend of mine (who coincidently got me onto the band) was the topic of debate. I mentioned that he was a huge fan and that when I was at a Muse concert and I failed to recite every Muse song that fans adored, I was almost immediatly shunned. Pretentious fans (all wearing Muse shirts by the by) are fun.
Anyways, a girl started talking about how she encountered an avid Muse fan and that she had told him that she was a fan of the band herself. The guy then asked her what her favourite songs were, and she mentioned one of the most popular songs of their most recent album - Supermassive Black Hole. The guys reaction was remarkably similar to...Kaylee? Kira?
The guy looked at her and said, "...Oh. You like THAT stuff. I only like stuff off their first album (Showbiz)" After a little digging, I discovered that most of that album was done trying to emulate Radiohead and that most of the other albums tried to be a little more innovative. That's beside the point. This chick apparently wasn't content to be looked down at by some random Muse flunky and so she engaged him in a debate about the pros and cons of the songs she likes and that he did not. Now, most of our tutorials are based on discussions we have between eachother about the state of music today so I knew this chick was pretty intelligent. However, apparently most of the time, all he could come up with was, "Just because."
I think that the urge to connect and talk with people is too strong to overrule the person's common sense, despite the fact that they know nothing about brain surgery when they're hitting on a nurse (not me...I made a crack about the lunch menu that didn't go over well - but at least I didn't sound like a ignorant jackass). As a journalism student, I think that you shouldn't pretend to know about these things when in reality you have the jist but not the PHD because you could end up doing more harm then good. Not being an expert on something doesn't mean you have to be ashamed of that. If I go to a function, told a rocket scientist I didn't like the shape of his space ship (that sounded more hetro in my head) or I went to a cheerleading rally and told the team I don't like the shape of their human pyramid (...) then I deserve to get shunned and mocked.
"Hello, how are you?"
Small chat: does anybody really enjoy it? I generally despise seeing people I only vaguely know in public. Commonly, they’ll ask me, “Hey, how’s everything going” as I’m quickly rushing to grab a bite to eat, make a lecture, or catch the last bus home. Hesitantly, I reply, “Yeah, really busy.” But that’s no hint for these friendly imposters. “Oh, yeah? What with?” they’ll continue.
At this stage I wish I answered with a simple “Good thanks”. Would that have shortened the conversation? More to the point – do these people, who are almost strangers, genuinely care about how I am and what I’ve been doing? I certainly don’t give a rats what they’ve been doing, unless it entails drastic change or someone remotely important in their life passing away… things like that.
Now, to define these people: an old classmate you were barely friends with back in 1997, your Mum’s colleague’s son, or that blonde girl you used to work with a few months ago (she worked days, you worked nights). Do these people feel they have some wildly strong connection with me that they have to invade my course of action?
Sure, I’m a strong believer of always being friendly, smiling, and saying hello. But if you are one of these “Hello, how are you? What have you been doing? How’s life? What’s new?” people, please note that there are people such as myself who try and avoid you at all costs.
At this stage I wish I answered with a simple “Good thanks”. Would that have shortened the conversation? More to the point – do these people, who are almost strangers, genuinely care about how I am and what I’ve been doing? I certainly don’t give a rats what they’ve been doing, unless it entails drastic change or someone remotely important in their life passing away… things like that.
Now, to define these people: an old classmate you were barely friends with back in 1997, your Mum’s colleague’s son, or that blonde girl you used to work with a few months ago (she worked days, you worked nights). Do these people feel they have some wildly strong connection with me that they have to invade my course of action?
Sure, I’m a strong believer of always being friendly, smiling, and saying hello. But if you are one of these “Hello, how are you? What have you been doing? How’s life? What’s new?” people, please note that there are people such as myself who try and avoid you at all costs.
necessary evils
Airports and I have a long and ugly history. They are the bane of my well planned holidays, the evil gremlin just waiting to throw a spanner in the works and keep me from enjoying the exotic destinations I’ve spent months dreaming about. I’ve experienced it all; twelve hour delays, emergency landings on remote tarmac, the embarrassing invasion of the hand held wand when the detector picked up some hidden minute trace of metal. Passport control officers who look like they would rather eat a lamb’s testicle than let me in the country. Sniffer beagles that look cute until they amble next to your bag. The ubiquitous duty free that forces me to buy giant bottles of liquor I never drink and fragrances I never wear because it’s cheaper. Not that I would know if it’s cheaper, because I don’t buy those things in my non-airport life. I’ve experienced the agony of Heathrow delays, the fear of Singapore’s machine gun toting security guards, the panic of discovering a hidden passport control at Rome twenty minutes before my flight. Twenty minutes is never long enough for a passport control in any country. The reason my hate-hate relationship with airports is at the front of my current agenda is that I have just bought tickets to Canada. Three weeks on the slopes of Whistler, smoothly cruising down the mountains during the day then cosying up with a hot chocolate and marshmallows at night. Three weeks wandering around and soaking up Vancouver. I’m lost in my daydreams already and my trip isn’t until November. But first I have to get through three airports. Three. Brisbane (bah) Los Angeles (eek) and Vancouver (urgh).
International student
The story may not be interesting but it tells what kind of life for international students.
I am an international student who speaks English as the second language.
The life in Australia is much harder than I image.
I suffer homesick and culture difference.
In addition, it is not easy to make local friends here. Before I came here I thought that my student life in Australia will be very interesting but in fact, it is not. I have to spend three times more to deal with my assignments because my English compare to local students is not good enough. Frankly speaking, I have no entertainment here. Everyday when I wake up, I have to turn on the computer and start to study. I am not a hard working student in my country but I am now here. ><
I want my party and drink back.
I think that most international students have similar life like mine.
We come here to see the world. How much experience we have had is much important than how much knowledge we gain.
I am an international student who speaks English as the second language.
The life in Australia is much harder than I image.
I suffer homesick and culture difference.
In addition, it is not easy to make local friends here. Before I came here I thought that my student life in Australia will be very interesting but in fact, it is not. I have to spend three times more to deal with my assignments because my English compare to local students is not good enough. Frankly speaking, I have no entertainment here. Everyday when I wake up, I have to turn on the computer and start to study. I am not a hard working student in my country but I am now here. ><
I want my party and drink back.
I think that most international students have similar life like mine.
We come here to see the world. How much experience we have had is much important than how much knowledge we gain.
Why dont you just own up!
Moving away from the comforts of home, to a residential unit dwelling shared by hundreds of students is some times hard to deal with. The noise, the mess, the sharing, the conflicts and the non-sense of uni students.
Coming from a home where it was mandatory to respect other peoples property my whole life, it has become clear that not every one has been set the same example.
I travelled home for the weekend to get away from it all, to return 4 days later with a letter on my shared apartment door.
It read - Unit 336 on level 3 of the west wing's door has been damaged. It is under the rules and regulations that no one under any circumstances damages the property of this building. If no one owns up, each person living in the west wing will pay for the damages.
So by now you can imagine the look on my face and the anger i am feeling. Firstly, i was not even in the building the night the incident occurred and secondly why are there so many dishonest people out there.
There are approximately 215 people living in the west wing, so the cost to fix the damage for each person will be minimal. It's not the cost that's the problem, it's the principal.
Why do people think they can run a muck, and not pay the consequences, instead they watch other people pay for them and this inturn is dishonest. The definition of respect is - to show consideration or thoughtfulness in relation to somebody or something. It is clear that this individual is lacking this quality.
To put it simply, idiots tick me off.
For the record, im not paying the fine.
Coming from a home where it was mandatory to respect other peoples property my whole life, it has become clear that not every one has been set the same example.
I travelled home for the weekend to get away from it all, to return 4 days later with a letter on my shared apartment door.
It read - Unit 336 on level 3 of the west wing's door has been damaged. It is under the rules and regulations that no one under any circumstances damages the property of this building. If no one owns up, each person living in the west wing will pay for the damages.
So by now you can imagine the look on my face and the anger i am feeling. Firstly, i was not even in the building the night the incident occurred and secondly why are there so many dishonest people out there.
There are approximately 215 people living in the west wing, so the cost to fix the damage for each person will be minimal. It's not the cost that's the problem, it's the principal.
Why do people think they can run a muck, and not pay the consequences, instead they watch other people pay for them and this inturn is dishonest. The definition of respect is - to show consideration or thoughtfulness in relation to somebody or something. It is clear that this individual is lacking this quality.
To put it simply, idiots tick me off.
For the record, im not paying the fine.
i AM iron man
Movies change me. Not physically. In the head. I'm not talking about Clockwork Orange style neurological torture, this is regular voluntary, stale popcorn, sticky floor, cheap Tuesday, cheap thrills. It's crazy i know, but there's something about isolating yourself from the outside world to stare at a wall for two hours that leaves a crazy impression.
The most recent example for me was Iron Man. Sure it's predictable: Dude invents iron suit, saves world, gets the girl, credits roll. But somewhere between the first explosion and the "no animals were harmed in this film" disclaimer I've been transformed.
I walk out of the cinema and suddenly everything's different. The short lob of my coke bottle to the bin is suddenly a grenade perfectly hitting the evil terrorist's bunker. The kids playing time crisis in the arcade are allies giving me cover as i walk to the carpark. Even my car seems to go faster as i negotiate the superfluous speed bumps. "10 km/hr! Eat my dust Westfiled."
I promise you i'm not crazy. I don't have some gun fetish. I just know that after i saw the latest 007 movie it took me 10 minutes to start the ignition because i was convinced there would be a car bomb.
Don't be concerned, i'll be ok. Just don't be surprised if you find me digging up your garden after watching Indiana Jones next week.
Nick Wiggins
The most recent example for me was Iron Man. Sure it's predictable: Dude invents iron suit, saves world, gets the girl, credits roll. But somewhere between the first explosion and the "no animals were harmed in this film" disclaimer I've been transformed.
I walk out of the cinema and suddenly everything's different. The short lob of my coke bottle to the bin is suddenly a grenade perfectly hitting the evil terrorist's bunker. The kids playing time crisis in the arcade are allies giving me cover as i walk to the carpark. Even my car seems to go faster as i negotiate the superfluous speed bumps. "10 km/hr! Eat my dust Westfiled."
I promise you i'm not crazy. I don't have some gun fetish. I just know that after i saw the latest 007 movie it took me 10 minutes to start the ignition because i was convinced there would be a car bomb.
Don't be concerned, i'll be ok. Just don't be surprised if you find me digging up your garden after watching Indiana Jones next week.
Nick Wiggins
Oishee Rants
Alright, so I am supposed to be ranting for the next half hour about things that make me cranky. Heh! What do I say? Some mornings I wake up and right from the sun that pierces into my eye to someone being overtly nice to me, EVERYTHING gets to me that day. And on some days, I am in such a brilliant mood, NOTHING can ever get to me! Today is one such day and it's taking quite a bit of effort to find something that makes me crabby. Hmmmmm...well, it's week 13 at uni. Woops! Week 11. *rolls eyes* See how clouded my mind is right now?
So, it's week 11. I finish my degree in 2 weeks time. Pretty much everything is due all at once. My brain is all over the place. And as I say that I can actually picture a semi-solid, jelly-like slippery wobbly little brain rolling around my messy room and I (since my skull is empty)am walking around the room like an autistic zombie (no offence, just pure description of my current state of mind).
2 weeks. 2 weeks. 2 weeks. That's my mantra these days. Yes, I meditate. Helps me from coming across as someone suffering from the tourettes syndrome. Again, no offence (why the heck am I drawing similies between myself and disorders!!!).
Oh well, I guess that description pretty much contradicts my earlier statement about not being cranky today. *mumbles to herself: big mouth!*
Hmmm...what else makes me feel really irritable? after my three week stint at the hospital which included stressed nurses, abnormally cheerful doctors who always had the best thigns to say ( We'd just like to also warn you that death is a possibility in this procedure. It is rare. Just one in a hundred). THAT ONE IN A HUNDRED COULD'VE BEEN ME! Idiots! And THAT to the patient who is supposed to undergo the surgery. Not even family or friends. Talk about stress!
So, coming back to my point (me beign the Queen of digression), my body seems to have slowed down after the illness. There's so much that I can do, want to do. I know I got the potential. But I've just slowed down a bit. I suppose this will go on until my medication is on. But not the best of state to be in in week 13!!
Aside: I wonder if Brian finds this enough of a rant :-P Though my friends tell me I am good at ranting with or without a cause.
yeah at the moment, that's my life: coping with a recuperating body, LOOOOAAAADDDSSSS of assignments all due at once and perhaps a little bit of anticipation about the future. Once I finish, it'll be my frist time in 22 years that I will be facign life as it is, out of an educational institution. Funny isn't it, how the word 'institution' has other meanings attached to it. And it is used in conjunction with education. Hee Hee Hee! Wonder what it says about me? Oh well!
This made me laugh today. Love babies!- so simple, pure, innocent, stress free, transparent....all good things ini life. God bless each one of them everywhere. :-)
So, it's week 11. I finish my degree in 2 weeks time. Pretty much everything is due all at once. My brain is all over the place. And as I say that I can actually picture a semi-solid, jelly-like slippery wobbly little brain rolling around my messy room and I (since my skull is empty)am walking around the room like an autistic zombie (no offence, just pure description of my current state of mind).
2 weeks. 2 weeks. 2 weeks. That's my mantra these days. Yes, I meditate. Helps me from coming across as someone suffering from the tourettes syndrome. Again, no offence (why the heck am I drawing similies between myself and disorders!!!).
Oh well, I guess that description pretty much contradicts my earlier statement about not being cranky today. *mumbles to herself: big mouth!*
Hmmm...what else makes me feel really irritable? after my three week stint at the hospital which included stressed nurses, abnormally cheerful doctors who always had the best thigns to say ( We'd just like to also warn you that death is a possibility in this procedure. It is rare. Just one in a hundred). THAT ONE IN A HUNDRED COULD'VE BEEN ME! Idiots! And THAT to the patient who is supposed to undergo the surgery. Not even family or friends. Talk about stress!
So, coming back to my point (me beign the Queen of digression), my body seems to have slowed down after the illness. There's so much that I can do, want to do. I know I got the potential. But I've just slowed down a bit. I suppose this will go on until my medication is on. But not the best of state to be in in week 13!!
Aside: I wonder if Brian finds this enough of a rant :-P Though my friends tell me I am good at ranting with or without a cause.
yeah at the moment, that's my life: coping with a recuperating body, LOOOOAAAADDDSSSS of assignments all due at once and perhaps a little bit of anticipation about the future. Once I finish, it'll be my frist time in 22 years that I will be facign life as it is, out of an educational institution. Funny isn't it, how the word 'institution' has other meanings attached to it. And it is used in conjunction with education. Hee Hee Hee! Wonder what it says about me? Oh well!
This made me laugh today. Love babies!- so simple, pure, innocent, stress free, transparent....all good things ini life. God bless each one of them everywhere. :-)
Tired Waiting
The feeling of walking into a lecture hall filled with students who have been annoyed by your late arrival, not to mention interrupting the lecturer, or worse, guest lecturer and then not being able to explain that your lateness was due to something out of your control is one of those things that leaves you feeling nothing short of embarrassed and infuriated.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am getting sick and tired of constantly waiting on busses that are (slowly) rolling in late, picking up passengers and acting oblivious to the fact that they are costing some people their dignity and even in some extreme cases their job.
Take today for example and the plan that I had gone to special lengths to make me arrive at university on time for class. The plan went a little something like this:
At 15:10 o’clock the 444 bus from Indooroopilly Shopping Town was expected to journey down the supposedly improved “fast-track” Coronation Drive and arrive at the Cultural Centre Busway at 15:33. Then I would wait until 15:40 where I would the board the 333 bus getting me to the QUT Kelvin Grove Busway at 15:53 just in time to make my class at 16:00. However, none of this went to plan. I was at Indooroopilly Shopping Town at 15:05 ready and waiting…waiting until 15:28 where I got on a 430 (notice I caught a different route and not the 444) which left me at the Cultural Centre Busway at 15:58 with a generous 2 minutes to spare to get on the 333 bus and walk to my class. Having knowing I had missed the 333 bus by a measly 3 minutes I reluctantly got on the 345 bus at 16:08 (are you keeping up?) which would drop be about 200 meters from the university. So at 16:20 I arrived on Kelvin Grove and began my decent down the hill to the university and decent into embarrassment as I walked into my classroom at 16:30 – half an hour late and half way through my class.
Having close connections with the Brisbane City Council and the complaints department for Brisbane City Council busses I am now one of those annoying people who will be calling up to complain about bus services running late and the slack efforts of the Council.
We can only hope that with the new busways opening on May 19 (next Monday) that Brisbane City Council will get their act together.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am getting sick and tired of constantly waiting on busses that are (slowly) rolling in late, picking up passengers and acting oblivious to the fact that they are costing some people their dignity and even in some extreme cases their job.
Take today for example and the plan that I had gone to special lengths to make me arrive at university on time for class. The plan went a little something like this:
At 15:10 o’clock the 444 bus from Indooroopilly Shopping Town was expected to journey down the supposedly improved “fast-track” Coronation Drive and arrive at the Cultural Centre Busway at 15:33. Then I would wait until 15:40 where I would the board the 333 bus getting me to the QUT Kelvin Grove Busway at 15:53 just in time to make my class at 16:00. However, none of this went to plan. I was at Indooroopilly Shopping Town at 15:05 ready and waiting…waiting until 15:28 where I got on a 430 (notice I caught a different route and not the 444) which left me at the Cultural Centre Busway at 15:58 with a generous 2 minutes to spare to get on the 333 bus and walk to my class. Having knowing I had missed the 333 bus by a measly 3 minutes I reluctantly got on the 345 bus at 16:08 (are you keeping up?) which would drop be about 200 meters from the university. So at 16:20 I arrived on Kelvin Grove and began my decent down the hill to the university and decent into embarrassment as I walked into my classroom at 16:30 – half an hour late and half way through my class.
Having close connections with the Brisbane City Council and the complaints department for Brisbane City Council busses I am now one of those annoying people who will be calling up to complain about bus services running late and the slack efforts of the Council.
We can only hope that with the new busways opening on May 19 (next Monday) that Brisbane City Council will get their act together.
Talk Nerdy To Me
by Eloise Freeman
It's official. I have a nerd fetish.
They're babes and you know it.
Characteristics which attract the opposite sex are usually quite generalised. Some women like the studly, muscly type, with sculpted stubble and a bum that can crack walnuts. Some women are into the arty, sensitive type, who wear poor boy caps, waffle on about politics, and drink imported beer. Some women are even into the effeminate emo types, like some girls like squealing over plush toys.
I've gone out with a few different types of guys. From a Filipino break dancer to a gothic weightlifter, it would seem that I have a rather eclectic taste in men. However, I have recently realised what my taste really is, and why I've picked the right man.
My friend Katey recently showed me this epic video - Ryan Vs Dorkman. They're two young men duelling each other, lightsaber style.
You may notice the part in the video when Dorkman slashes Ryan's leg. Ryan stumbles for a second, then assumes a ready stance. The camera zooms in on Dorkman, who wields his lightsaber, adjusts his glasses, and fixes a steely glare at Ryan.
"Mmm," I said. "Dorkman's dreamy."
"I'd hit that," agreed Katey.
Wait a minute. I was swooning over a bespectacled, lightsaber-wielding nerd. Aren't I supposed to be salivating over Justin Timberlake or something? Squealing orgasmically at Zac Efron? Humping the air at Orlando Bloom?
It's simple; I love nerd boys. Yes, that's right. The ones that get excited about video games and swordfighting. The ones that indulge in internet humour and call each other n00bs. The ones that have spirited debates over whether Wiis are better than Playstations and if pirates could beat ninjas. The socially awkward ones that stammer when they talk to girls. The pale, slightly plump or slightly skinny and glasses-wearing ones. I found myself watching the bumbling, socially awkward boys in Superbad and declaring, “They’re all babes. Especially McLovin’.”
Of course, you get the odd horrible nerd who will think you're pathetic because you haven't watched all the Star Wars movies, and hates women because they spurn his creepy, stalkerish advances. Not to mention the ones that look at Asian girls (like myself) and associate them with ditzy, submissive anime girls who wear gravity-defying short skirts. But they're a minority.
I think it's because I'm a bit of a nerd myself. I'm instantly comfortable around a nerd because nerds are less likely to snub you because you're into retro video games, B-grade horror movies and saying "LOL" in public. “Normal” guys just don't understand.
Nerds are fantastic to date. Most of them are intelligent, have an unpredictable sense of humour and can fix your computer. And picking up a nerd boy is a piece of cake; you don’t have to dress like a catwalk model. In fact, you’d get more of a response if you wore a shirt making an obscure reference to an old Nintendo game.
My boyfriend is definitely a nerd. He recently bought a ridiculously pimped-out computer, plays competitive ping pong, manages a small computer company and wears a spiffing pair of glasses. We met over the Internet. The circle of nerdiness is complete. Occasionally, he is somewhat mystified as to why I'm going out with him. Apart from the fact that he is friendly, funny, and a generally lovely person, there was one major deal breaker that meant that he was the man for me.
“Babe, can you imagine me going out with someone... normal?” I ask.
Most girls dream of a muscly Prince Charming who will dress like he just walked off the set of “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy”, take them out to expensive restaurant, then light rose-scented candles when they take them back to their high-rise city apartment. It sounds nice, but I can't help thinking that I'd die of boredom in the middle of it. I can't be the only girl like this. Give me a nerd guy who will take me to see a Tarantino movie, eat pizza then take me back to his messy bedroom to play Wii Tennis anyday.
(PS: If you like what you read, I have my own blog here if you're interested.)
It's official. I have a nerd fetish.
They're babes and you know it.
Characteristics which attract the opposite sex are usually quite generalised. Some women like the studly, muscly type, with sculpted stubble and a bum that can crack walnuts. Some women are into the arty, sensitive type, who wear poor boy caps, waffle on about politics, and drink imported beer. Some women are even into the effeminate emo types, like some girls like squealing over plush toys.
I've gone out with a few different types of guys. From a Filipino break dancer to a gothic weightlifter, it would seem that I have a rather eclectic taste in men. However, I have recently realised what my taste really is, and why I've picked the right man.
My friend Katey recently showed me this epic video - Ryan Vs Dorkman. They're two young men duelling each other, lightsaber style.
You may notice the part in the video when Dorkman slashes Ryan's leg. Ryan stumbles for a second, then assumes a ready stance. The camera zooms in on Dorkman, who wields his lightsaber, adjusts his glasses, and fixes a steely glare at Ryan.
"Mmm," I said. "Dorkman's dreamy."
"I'd hit that," agreed Katey.
Wait a minute. I was swooning over a bespectacled, lightsaber-wielding nerd. Aren't I supposed to be salivating over Justin Timberlake or something? Squealing orgasmically at Zac Efron? Humping the air at Orlando Bloom?
It's simple; I love nerd boys. Yes, that's right. The ones that get excited about video games and swordfighting. The ones that indulge in internet humour and call each other n00bs. The ones that have spirited debates over whether Wiis are better than Playstations and if pirates could beat ninjas. The socially awkward ones that stammer when they talk to girls. The pale, slightly plump or slightly skinny and glasses-wearing ones. I found myself watching the bumbling, socially awkward boys in Superbad and declaring, “They’re all babes. Especially McLovin’.”
Of course, you get the odd horrible nerd who will think you're pathetic because you haven't watched all the Star Wars movies, and hates women because they spurn his creepy, stalkerish advances. Not to mention the ones that look at Asian girls (like myself) and associate them with ditzy, submissive anime girls who wear gravity-defying short skirts. But they're a minority.
I think it's because I'm a bit of a nerd myself. I'm instantly comfortable around a nerd because nerds are less likely to snub you because you're into retro video games, B-grade horror movies and saying "LOL" in public. “Normal” guys just don't understand.
Nerds are fantastic to date. Most of them are intelligent, have an unpredictable sense of humour and can fix your computer. And picking up a nerd boy is a piece of cake; you don’t have to dress like a catwalk model. In fact, you’d get more of a response if you wore a shirt making an obscure reference to an old Nintendo game.
My boyfriend is definitely a nerd. He recently bought a ridiculously pimped-out computer, plays competitive ping pong, manages a small computer company and wears a spiffing pair of glasses. We met over the Internet. The circle of nerdiness is complete. Occasionally, he is somewhat mystified as to why I'm going out with him. Apart from the fact that he is friendly, funny, and a generally lovely person, there was one major deal breaker that meant that he was the man for me.
“Babe, can you imagine me going out with someone... normal?” I ask.
Most girls dream of a muscly Prince Charming who will dress like he just walked off the set of “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy”, take them out to expensive restaurant, then light rose-scented candles when they take them back to their high-rise city apartment. It sounds nice, but I can't help thinking that I'd die of boredom in the middle of it. I can't be the only girl like this. Give me a nerd guy who will take me to see a Tarantino movie, eat pizza then take me back to his messy bedroom to play Wii Tennis anyday.
(PS: If you like what you read, I have my own blog here if you're interested.)
A little piece of shoe heaven.
It is surprising how it is so hard to find a pair of shoes that does not pinch your feet, looks divine and does not require you to get a loan from the bank just to own it. Especially when there are so many shoe shops out there. You would have thought that shoe shopping involves nothing more than waltzing into any random shoe shop, pointing at a pair of shoes, and saying “That’s the one”.
Alas, shoe shopping is nothing like the above ideal scenario. It often involves much time trying on about a thousand unsuitable pairs before actually finding the perfect pair. But hang on. What does the price tag read?
Yes, your eyes are not deceiving you, the pair of perfect footwear on your feet now costs you almost a week worth of wages (or a month’s worth, it really depends on which shoe shop you went into).
The dilemma now is, are the shoes worth the price. How does one define if a shoe is worth the price anyway? The number of times you get out of wearing it? The number of compliments you will get? If you do not get it, you will regret it till your dying bed?
It is really up to you to make the choice. Emptying your wallet with the knowledge that you own this piece of shoe heaven, or bidding farewell to this pair of babies you managed to find after hours of shifting through a mountain of footwear.
It is okay to choose the latter option as you can walk away rationalising that your decision is the right one. That your wallet is feeling thankful to you.
However, if you are lucky enough to find another pair that actually fits all three criteria of fitting well, looking good and being cheap, make sure you head for the counter right away. But you may also like to consider having an extra pair in hand. For future use when your first pair wears out of course.
Date me and you’ll be hitched in a year…to another woman.
By Roxanne Alcorn
Should a happily-single, joyfully-independent, deliriously-unattached young woman be at all concerned that all her ex-boyfriends are getting married? As the next wedding rolls around this weekend, I’m wondering what to say in my speech. My last wedding was only two weeks ago. They’re coming so thick and fast, I barely have time to invent new material. Don’t get me wrong. I love weddings, and I’m very happy for the lucky couple, blah blah blah. And I’m TOTALLY fine with some of my friends beginning to jokingly remind me that it’s only 17 years until I’m 40, so I’d better hurry up and find a man. Actually, to be exact, it’s 17 years, two months and one day until I’m 40. Not that I’m counting down or anything, it’s just that I added a new Facebook application that calculates things like that for me.
Speaking of Facebook, that’s how I found out this latest ex of mine was getting hitched. Yes, that’s right, he changed his relationship status from “in a relationship” to “engaged.” In fact, every time I venture onto Facebook, I’m given a running commentary of which friends are “single,” which ones are looking for “whatever I can get,” and which ones say “it’s complicated” every second day. Very soon, say in a year or so, all their statuses will probably read the same; “we’re either married or in a serious relationship so there’s nothing really exciting to report.”
I realise I’m beginning to sound like a cynical, bitter, twisted old woman who’s still in love with her ex-boyfriend. This is totally incorrect. The relationship was happily ended and I can see he’s a wonderful match for his bride-to-be. I really am looking forward to the wedding. I’m even relatively ok about having to sing the totally mushy and possibly overdone hit of Shania Twain’s, “From this moment on.” Yes, as you may have guessed, it will be a country wedding, which is sure to mean a boot-scooting good time.
(not complete...)
By Roxanne Alcorn
Should a happily-single, joyfully-independent, deliriously-unattached young woman be at all concerned that all her ex-boyfriends are getting married? As the next wedding rolls around this weekend, I’m wondering what to say in my speech. My last wedding was only two weeks ago. They’re coming so thick and fast, I barely have time to invent new material. Don’t get me wrong. I love weddings, and I’m very happy for the lucky couple, blah blah blah. And I’m TOTALLY fine with some of my friends beginning to jokingly remind me that it’s only 17 years until I’m 40, so I’d better hurry up and find a man. Actually, to be exact, it’s 17 years, two months and one day until I’m 40. Not that I’m counting down or anything, it’s just that I added a new Facebook application that calculates things like that for me.
Speaking of Facebook, that’s how I found out this latest ex of mine was getting hitched. Yes, that’s right, he changed his relationship status from “in a relationship” to “engaged.” In fact, every time I venture onto Facebook, I’m given a running commentary of which friends are “single,” which ones are looking for “whatever I can get,” and which ones say “it’s complicated” every second day. Very soon, say in a year or so, all their statuses will probably read the same; “we’re either married or in a serious relationship so there’s nothing really exciting to report.”
I realise I’m beginning to sound like a cynical, bitter, twisted old woman who’s still in love with her ex-boyfriend. This is totally incorrect. The relationship was happily ended and I can see he’s a wonderful match for his bride-to-be. I really am looking forward to the wedding. I’m even relatively ok about having to sing the totally mushy and possibly overdone hit of Shania Twain’s, “From this moment on.” Yes, as you may have guessed, it will be a country wedding, which is sure to mean a boot-scooting good time.
(not complete...)
“So, you’ve let yourself go”
By: Christa Nicola
I recent conversation with my mother sparked an outcry of controversy, mixed in with a dash of grimace and a dollop of irritation.
“You’ve let yourself go,” she says to me in a stern voice.
Now, to me and hoping to most of Australia, letting yourself go means: you’ve put on weight, and by weight I mean you now look like a walrus.
Being only 5ft, and might I say so myself of a petite frame (size 8-10)- I most definitely don’t think that is letting yourself go. However to my mother, a few extra follicles of eye brow hair and dirty clothes on the floor are an invitation to express an opinion on her study-a-holic daughter’s body.
To most, weeks 11-12 of university is the strenuous crunch-study time and if you know me personally, you will know that weeks 11-12 are added stresses to what is previously endured throughout the semester.
Now to think that my main priority was university, made me laugh, as obviously my mother feels it’s necessary that beauty should be number one. Unfortunately, my weeks planning was not to get some Pure Indulgence facials, or to get a manicure- but it was clearly to read thousands upon thousands of Contracts Notes, while not trying to miss Sunday’s Grey’s Anatomy and Brother’s and Sisters – to my dismay both are taped. Apparently, reading and studying is the answer to why so many young girls are letting themselves go- according to my mother.
Seeing as the fascination of celebrity status and sex appeal has reached an all-time high. Peer pressure isn’t helping the issue of vanity and anorexia diminish that one bit. However, no-one told me there was such a thing as Parental-vanity-pressure. As under my household if you’re not looking as sexy as Eva Longoria, or as sultry as Jennifer Lopez. I think it’s a subtle way of saying: MOVE OUT OF HOME or please pay rent.
Now I assure you all that, my mother did apologise to me.
However, a tip to those who feel that they are not up to there parents saying that they are both ugly and fat. Girl’s wax your eye-brows, get regular hair-cuts, keep up-to-date with fashion (i.e. VOGUE) and make sure your room is free from clothes all over the floor.
I recent conversation with my mother sparked an outcry of controversy, mixed in with a dash of grimace and a dollop of irritation.
“You’ve let yourself go,” she says to me in a stern voice.
Now, to me and hoping to most of Australia, letting yourself go means: you’ve put on weight, and by weight I mean you now look like a walrus.
Being only 5ft, and might I say so myself of a petite frame (size 8-10)- I most definitely don’t think that is letting yourself go. However to my mother, a few extra follicles of eye brow hair and dirty clothes on the floor are an invitation to express an opinion on her study-a-holic daughter’s body.
To most, weeks 11-12 of university is the strenuous crunch-study time and if you know me personally, you will know that weeks 11-12 are added stresses to what is previously endured throughout the semester.
Now to think that my main priority was university, made me laugh, as obviously my mother feels it’s necessary that beauty should be number one. Unfortunately, my weeks planning was not to get some Pure Indulgence facials, or to get a manicure- but it was clearly to read thousands upon thousands of Contracts Notes, while not trying to miss Sunday’s Grey’s Anatomy and Brother’s and Sisters – to my dismay both are taped. Apparently, reading and studying is the answer to why so many young girls are letting themselves go- according to my mother.
Seeing as the fascination of celebrity status and sex appeal has reached an all-time high. Peer pressure isn’t helping the issue of vanity and anorexia diminish that one bit. However, no-one told me there was such a thing as Parental-vanity-pressure. As under my household if you’re not looking as sexy as Eva Longoria, or as sultry as Jennifer Lopez. I think it’s a subtle way of saying: MOVE OUT OF HOME or please pay rent.
Now I assure you all that, my mother did apologise to me.
However, a tip to those who feel that they are not up to there parents saying that they are both ugly and fat. Girl’s wax your eye-brows, get regular hair-cuts, keep up-to-date with fashion (i.e. VOGUE) and make sure your room is free from clothes all over the floor.
Drive yourself Next Time
Amy de Graaf
Accepting a lift with someone can often seem like a good idea at the time. A spur of the moment decision without consideration for another’s driving ability. But what do you do when you realise your newly appointed chauffer can’t drive and probably shouldn’t ever again? And what do you do when you realise there is no way out of the car for a good hour or so?
I’ve been known to dig my fingers into new leather seats as I flew up a windy mountain road at 110km/hr with my life flashing before my eyes. I had only gotten in that car as chaperone and I was locked in for the next few hours as my driver showed off to a friend in the front seat. I found out later she also nearly wet herself and had similar flashbacks of her short life.
Other times I’ve simply tried to ignore a driver who closed his eyes while his brother steered from the passenger seat and instructed when to speed up or slow down. I couldn’t ignore it for long before the brother shouted “Don’t slow down that fast! Holy Crap” followed by the expected dumb male guffaw and a sharp jolt as the wheel got tugged back in the right direction.
Come to think of it all my horrendous driving experiences as a passenger are the result of letting one of the male species take charge. They may see it as a right of passage, a chance to look rad, even if they are only driving a Toyota Camry. It seems quite often receiving a license becomes permission for them to forget all the legalities that restrict you when you’re learning and just go crazy in a mad bid to impress. I barely understand joy riders when they’re only putting themselves at risk, but when taking on the responsibility of several passengers I fail to comprehend how their brain is ticking over and if in fact they have one any more useful than the fluffy dice hanging from their rear view mirror.
I’ve made it my new policy to drive myself and politely decline any offers for a ride, especially from that of the opposite sex and even more so if there are two of them sitting in the front. If I absolutely must accept an offer, possibly if my arm has been ripped from my socket and I need a lift to hospital, I will still take the time to stipulate how I want the car driven, at what speed, and whether I want the person in the passenger seat or the driver’s seat to be responsible.
Accepting a lift with someone can often seem like a good idea at the time. A spur of the moment decision without consideration for another’s driving ability. But what do you do when you realise your newly appointed chauffer can’t drive and probably shouldn’t ever again? And what do you do when you realise there is no way out of the car for a good hour or so?
I’ve been known to dig my fingers into new leather seats as I flew up a windy mountain road at 110km/hr with my life flashing before my eyes. I had only gotten in that car as chaperone and I was locked in for the next few hours as my driver showed off to a friend in the front seat. I found out later she also nearly wet herself and had similar flashbacks of her short life.
Other times I’ve simply tried to ignore a driver who closed his eyes while his brother steered from the passenger seat and instructed when to speed up or slow down. I couldn’t ignore it for long before the brother shouted “Don’t slow down that fast! Holy Crap” followed by the expected dumb male guffaw and a sharp jolt as the wheel got tugged back in the right direction.
Come to think of it all my horrendous driving experiences as a passenger are the result of letting one of the male species take charge. They may see it as a right of passage, a chance to look rad, even if they are only driving a Toyota Camry. It seems quite often receiving a license becomes permission for them to forget all the legalities that restrict you when you’re learning and just go crazy in a mad bid to impress. I barely understand joy riders when they’re only putting themselves at risk, but when taking on the responsibility of several passengers I fail to comprehend how their brain is ticking over and if in fact they have one any more useful than the fluffy dice hanging from their rear view mirror.
I’ve made it my new policy to drive myself and politely decline any offers for a ride, especially from that of the opposite sex and even more so if there are two of them sitting in the front. If I absolutely must accept an offer, possibly if my arm has been ripped from my socket and I need a lift to hospital, I will still take the time to stipulate how I want the car driven, at what speed, and whether I want the person in the passenger seat or the driver’s seat to be responsible.
Watch Your Own Big Brother...
By Shellie Doyle
Flicking through the television last night I accidently landed upon the nightly edition of Big Brother, lucky me. My remote also chose this exact moment to die and since the metre or so walk to the TV screen was simply too much, I was obliged to watch.
Whilst watching the last ten or so minutes of the show, one though kept resounding in my head, what is the appeal of this show, seriously? Ten what were you thinking. If I wanted to watch a house full of loonies, attention seekers, tantrums and animals who get told what to do by someone who thinks they’re in control I may as well just turn off the telly, sit in the corner and observe my family.
Maybe that’s a little harsh on my blood relatives, but hey I’m sure everyone has a crazy relation or ten. You have to love them but no one says you have to like them.
Watching my family instead of Big Brother might also come in handy. Instead of getting to know and getting emotionally attached to a bunch of complete strangers I could get to know and get emotionally attached to my own family. I might also finally understand why my little sister pretends she’s a horse and why the dog insists on licking the walls. Such information that could be found out from being a fly on the wall might also be advantageous later on.
Hey dad, since you fed half of the meal mum cooked you last night to the dog you won’t mind if I borrow your car for a bit would you?
Although the unfortunate part of watching your family life instead of Big Brother is that you can’t vote people off when they get overbearingly annoying. Lucky you little sis, you get to stay.
Flicking through the television last night I accidently landed upon the nightly edition of Big Brother, lucky me. My remote also chose this exact moment to die and since the metre or so walk to the TV screen was simply too much, I was obliged to watch.
Whilst watching the last ten or so minutes of the show, one though kept resounding in my head, what is the appeal of this show, seriously? Ten what were you thinking. If I wanted to watch a house full of loonies, attention seekers, tantrums and animals who get told what to do by someone who thinks they’re in control I may as well just turn off the telly, sit in the corner and observe my family.
Maybe that’s a little harsh on my blood relatives, but hey I’m sure everyone has a crazy relation or ten. You have to love them but no one says you have to like them.
Watching my family instead of Big Brother might also come in handy. Instead of getting to know and getting emotionally attached to a bunch of complete strangers I could get to know and get emotionally attached to my own family. I might also finally understand why my little sister pretends she’s a horse and why the dog insists on licking the walls. Such information that could be found out from being a fly on the wall might also be advantageous later on.
Hey dad, since you fed half of the meal mum cooked you last night to the dog you won’t mind if I borrow your car for a bit would you?
Although the unfortunate part of watching your family life instead of Big Brother is that you can’t vote people off when they get overbearingly annoying. Lucky you little sis, you get to stay.
The day my faith died
By Kate Newman
Last week it finally happened. The event my father has been waiting for since I got my license two years ago. I got my first parking ticket for parking on a yellow line at Uni. Dad performed the relevant “I told you so” and preceded to give me a lecture on the advantages of public transport, and I stood there and bite my tongue. I knew I could never win an argument against a fearless HR manager.
The thing is, yes, I would love to rely on public transport if it would save me the $60 parking fine I would receive at Uni. And just on that note, why my parking fine was $60 and my boyfriend’s fine a month before for the same offence at the same place was $37.50 I will never know. The point is, yes I would take public transport if I could be assured day in day out that the relevant bus/train/city cat would arrive at its destination at the specified time.
Now, I’m human. I realise that time delays are a natural part of the transport process. But, when, in my first year of Uni I had an exam to attend and subsequently left for the bus two hours prior in order to arrive with plenty of time to spare, I expect to get to Uni before exam time. But no. Four absent buses and one hour later I arrived at that exam.
Despite this, I still continued to trust the transport system. It had had an off day. So of course, imagine my surprise when that very next week I showed up at Uni two hours late, soaked to the bone and very unhappy. Events which led to this demised state included a 30 minute postponed train, a lost dog, rainfall which I would have avoided had the city cat come on time rather than 20minutes later and a bus driver who did not appreciate wet passengers.
My faith in the transport system was being tried. The final straw came a month later, when I had to be at Uni for an oral presentation. I was already slightly anxious as to the result, so I left a specified two hours prior to my tutorial, plenty of time to relax when I got there. I walked to the train station and waited. And waited. Half and hour later I asked the station master when I could be expecting a train. He informed me the trains had ceased running for the next two hours due to a fault in the wires. Perfect! A marathon run to the bus stop followed and I am pleased to report I made the oral presentation with minutes to spare. However, that was the day my faith in public transport dimmed and died.
So as my Dad was lecturing me on the positives of the system, including reduced carbon emissions, I was not cursing that $60 parking fine that should have been $37.50, instead I was thinking about the next illegal parking spot I could find at Uni to park my faithful wheels that get me to a place on time.
Last week it finally happened. The event my father has been waiting for since I got my license two years ago. I got my first parking ticket for parking on a yellow line at Uni. Dad performed the relevant “I told you so” and preceded to give me a lecture on the advantages of public transport, and I stood there and bite my tongue. I knew I could never win an argument against a fearless HR manager.
The thing is, yes, I would love to rely on public transport if it would save me the $60 parking fine I would receive at Uni. And just on that note, why my parking fine was $60 and my boyfriend’s fine a month before for the same offence at the same place was $37.50 I will never know. The point is, yes I would take public transport if I could be assured day in day out that the relevant bus/train/city cat would arrive at its destination at the specified time.
Now, I’m human. I realise that time delays are a natural part of the transport process. But, when, in my first year of Uni I had an exam to attend and subsequently left for the bus two hours prior in order to arrive with plenty of time to spare, I expect to get to Uni before exam time. But no. Four absent buses and one hour later I arrived at that exam.
Despite this, I still continued to trust the transport system. It had had an off day. So of course, imagine my surprise when that very next week I showed up at Uni two hours late, soaked to the bone and very unhappy. Events which led to this demised state included a 30 minute postponed train, a lost dog, rainfall which I would have avoided had the city cat come on time rather than 20minutes later and a bus driver who did not appreciate wet passengers.
My faith in the transport system was being tried. The final straw came a month later, when I had to be at Uni for an oral presentation. I was already slightly anxious as to the result, so I left a specified two hours prior to my tutorial, plenty of time to relax when I got there. I walked to the train station and waited. And waited. Half and hour later I asked the station master when I could be expecting a train. He informed me the trains had ceased running for the next two hours due to a fault in the wires. Perfect! A marathon run to the bus stop followed and I am pleased to report I made the oral presentation with minutes to spare. However, that was the day my faith in public transport dimmed and died.
So as my Dad was lecturing me on the positives of the system, including reduced carbon emissions, I was not cursing that $60 parking fine that should have been $37.50, instead I was thinking about the next illegal parking spot I could find at Uni to park my faithful wheels that get me to a place on time.
Guilty Pleasures
by Liz Burke
I’ve been poisoned. Well that’s what it feels like anyway. Having long been known amongst my social circles as an aficionado of all things new, different and often alternative, especially in the musical realm, I feel like my newly developed tainted musical taste has infected me like a disease and is poisoning my soul, not to mention reputation. Like any disorder, I guess the first step is admitting it, so here I go…
I like pop music. No, I love it. I love Fergie, I love Chris Brown and I love Britney. I don’t know how it happened, but I know I’m not the only one. It’s an epidemic affecting sales assistants, hospitality workers, health and fitness trainers and hairdressers all over. Working in an environment with the top 40 constantly screeching from overhead speakers for 35 hours a week for almost two years now, it’s been hard to fight. For the first few months I would cringe and complain every time the music would change from Justin to Beyonce to Shakira and Panic! At the Disco. Then the guilty pleasures came… some songs are so lame they’re entertaining, so listening turns in to a fun mimicking game amongst colleagues rather being overcome by the urge to escape the department or reach for a scarf or some tissue paper to use as mufflers over the ears. It’s when these lame, terrible songs are so catchy that you can’t help singing along that it becomes a problem. Then you take it out of the workplace and into the car on the radio, you find these cheesy, predictably formulaic, electronically manufactured tunes coming to your aid as a pick me up when you hear the bouncy bass line booming over the pounding in your head on a seedy Sunday morning in front of Video Hits. Finally, you have your favourites, you know the words, you start waiting for those songs to come on the store soundtrack to brighten up your day. It all seems innocent enough until you’re hit with the realisation when you least expect it.
Because I don’t download music at home, and would never dream of buying any CD from the popular section these days, listening at home is not an option. It wasn’t until last week, visiting my sister, whom this realisation shocked even more then me, that I was faced with the ultimate test. An iTunes playlist of over 8000 songs. Six months ago I would have picked something from perhaps the punk, hardcore, alternative or indie genres, but on this occasion, all I could think was “how could she have so much music and not have downloaded Leona Lewis – Bleeding Love.” I was shocked, appalled and embarrassed and felt like I died a little inside… then proceeded to modify her playlist adding some of my new favourites.
I’ve been poisoned. Well that’s what it feels like anyway. Having long been known amongst my social circles as an aficionado of all things new, different and often alternative, especially in the musical realm, I feel like my newly developed tainted musical taste has infected me like a disease and is poisoning my soul, not to mention reputation. Like any disorder, I guess the first step is admitting it, so here I go…
I like pop music. No, I love it. I love Fergie, I love Chris Brown and I love Britney. I don’t know how it happened, but I know I’m not the only one. It’s an epidemic affecting sales assistants, hospitality workers, health and fitness trainers and hairdressers all over. Working in an environment with the top 40 constantly screeching from overhead speakers for 35 hours a week for almost two years now, it’s been hard to fight. For the first few months I would cringe and complain every time the music would change from Justin to Beyonce to Shakira and Panic! At the Disco. Then the guilty pleasures came… some songs are so lame they’re entertaining, so listening turns in to a fun mimicking game amongst colleagues rather being overcome by the urge to escape the department or reach for a scarf or some tissue paper to use as mufflers over the ears. It’s when these lame, terrible songs are so catchy that you can’t help singing along that it becomes a problem. Then you take it out of the workplace and into the car on the radio, you find these cheesy, predictably formulaic, electronically manufactured tunes coming to your aid as a pick me up when you hear the bouncy bass line booming over the pounding in your head on a seedy Sunday morning in front of Video Hits. Finally, you have your favourites, you know the words, you start waiting for those songs to come on the store soundtrack to brighten up your day. It all seems innocent enough until you’re hit with the realisation when you least expect it.
Because I don’t download music at home, and would never dream of buying any CD from the popular section these days, listening at home is not an option. It wasn’t until last week, visiting my sister, whom this realisation shocked even more then me, that I was faced with the ultimate test. An iTunes playlist of over 8000 songs. Six months ago I would have picked something from perhaps the punk, hardcore, alternative or indie genres, but on this occasion, all I could think was “how could she have so much music and not have downloaded Leona Lewis – Bleeding Love.” I was shocked, appalled and embarrassed and felt like I died a little inside… then proceeded to modify her playlist adding some of my new favourites.
The Real Uni Life
So it’s fast approaching winter and most people are probably jumping for joy, after all the 45 degree heat is ebbing away, so is the desperate need to hang out in the shopping centre just for the air conditioning, now you can actually wear clothes and go outside. However, there will be a large group of people who aren’t jumping for joy at the sign of winter, people who probably don’t even know each other from Adam yet they all have one thing in common.
That’s the people who got handed the glorious cold. I know I just did. Now comes the coughing, sneezing and feeling like you’ve been hit by a train not to mention the copious amounts of scrunched up tissues you’ve become inundated with. Then along comes the loneliness. People start to avoid you, and it’s not surprising, you look like the walking plague and I’m pretty sure they don’t want some of what you’ve got. So not only do you feel like the virus that came to uni, everyone begins to feel the Chinese idea of wearing face masks is a pretty good one. Then along comes the anger and hate; that is the three people who hate me for sharing my little problem with them.
So now your on your own, just you against the rest of the world, unless of course you pal up with someone who shares your terrible fate. Then it comes to you there is light at the end of the tunnel, uni light! You could stay home and get ahead of your 100% happy and healthy friends by doing some uni work. What a revelation! Instead of waltzing down to the local pub for a beer like you’re so cool, or going shopping, or even thinking about the idea of having a life, you can live the real uni life. The life which entails sitting at home and reading books, studying and handing your work in on time with a smile rather than rushing through the door looking like you’ve just competed at the Beijing Olympics. Yup! For just the small price of a box of tissues, your friends and your self esteem you can have the perfect uni life all you need is the common cold. Here have mine, I’m almost done!
That’s the people who got handed the glorious cold. I know I just did. Now comes the coughing, sneezing and feeling like you’ve been hit by a train not to mention the copious amounts of scrunched up tissues you’ve become inundated with. Then along comes the loneliness. People start to avoid you, and it’s not surprising, you look like the walking plague and I’m pretty sure they don’t want some of what you’ve got. So not only do you feel like the virus that came to uni, everyone begins to feel the Chinese idea of wearing face masks is a pretty good one. Then along comes the anger and hate; that is the three people who hate me for sharing my little problem with them.
So now your on your own, just you against the rest of the world, unless of course you pal up with someone who shares your terrible fate. Then it comes to you there is light at the end of the tunnel, uni light! You could stay home and get ahead of your 100% happy and healthy friends by doing some uni work. What a revelation! Instead of waltzing down to the local pub for a beer like you’re so cool, or going shopping, or even thinking about the idea of having a life, you can live the real uni life. The life which entails sitting at home and reading books, studying and handing your work in on time with a smile rather than rushing through the door looking like you’ve just competed at the Beijing Olympics. Yup! For just the small price of a box of tissues, your friends and your self esteem you can have the perfect uni life all you need is the common cold. Here have mine, I’m almost done!
Reality TV Celebrities
By Stephanee Muir
The fascination with celebrities has now reached an all time high here in Australia. It once was just the star crazed country that is America.
But it now seems here in Aus that anyone can be a celebrity. For this we can largely thank the person who created the reality TV revolution.
At the moment Big Brother seems to be at the fore front once again. Despite calls from former Prime Minister John Howard, the show is back again for another so called riveting piece of television.
This year the country was promised bigger and better things from big brother: new hosts, new rules and dynamic housemates.
Dynamic housemates? I’m not quite convinced. I am not a fan I’ve big brother, in fact I was bored after the first season. But it seems to me that every year viewers are promised the same thing.
The reason I bring this up is that if you are in fact a fan of big brother or a media follower you would know that Corey Worthington entered the Big Brother house a few days ago.
For those of you who don’t recognise the name, Corey is the 16 year old teenager who through a party in Melbourne while his parents were on holiday and was gate crashed by 500 party goers who found out through a posting made by Corey on MySpace.
Now it is reported in yesterday’s papers that Corey is making money from his party boy status. Big Brother is paying Corey 10 thousand dollars a night while in the Big brother house. So fare the total is up to 80 thousand.
Meanwhile when Corey first entered the house one of the so called dynamic housemates greeted him with a pat on the back and the line “living legend mate.”
Corey, the party boy is now being called a living legend and is being paid to continue his infamous party acts in the big brother house as one of the new and improved dynamic housemates.
God help this country if we are getting so celebrity crazed that a 16 year old who is known nation wide by throwing an out of control party, is now considered one.
The fascination with celebrities has now reached an all time high here in Australia. It once was just the star crazed country that is America.
But it now seems here in Aus that anyone can be a celebrity. For this we can largely thank the person who created the reality TV revolution.
At the moment Big Brother seems to be at the fore front once again. Despite calls from former Prime Minister John Howard, the show is back again for another so called riveting piece of television.
This year the country was promised bigger and better things from big brother: new hosts, new rules and dynamic housemates.
Dynamic housemates? I’m not quite convinced. I am not a fan I’ve big brother, in fact I was bored after the first season. But it seems to me that every year viewers are promised the same thing.
The reason I bring this up is that if you are in fact a fan of big brother or a media follower you would know that Corey Worthington entered the Big Brother house a few days ago.
For those of you who don’t recognise the name, Corey is the 16 year old teenager who through a party in Melbourne while his parents were on holiday and was gate crashed by 500 party goers who found out through a posting made by Corey on MySpace.
Now it is reported in yesterday’s papers that Corey is making money from his party boy status. Big Brother is paying Corey 10 thousand dollars a night while in the Big brother house. So fare the total is up to 80 thousand.
Meanwhile when Corey first entered the house one of the so called dynamic housemates greeted him with a pat on the back and the line “living legend mate.”
Corey, the party boy is now being called a living legend and is being paid to continue his infamous party acts in the big brother house as one of the new and improved dynamic housemates.
God help this country if we are getting so celebrity crazed that a 16 year old who is known nation wide by throwing an out of control party, is now considered one.
Blame the parent, not the game
Blame the parent, not the game.
By Chris Tracey
The past few weeks have been a tumultuous time for excited guys and girls waiting for the new Grand Theft Auto game. While reports from all reviewers give the game an outstanding score, the media has been haranguing Rockstar Entertainment about its game. Parents and concerned citizens of Australia have been protesting, petitioning and (god forbid) blogging against this game. They are all saying it is too violent, too extreme and far too dangerous to give our youth in an age of school shootings, gangs and Emo conventions outside Hungry Jacks.
The media has been throwing around accusations at the gaming community for years. Shootings, horrific beatings, rapes, the list goes on and all of these have, at one point or another, been blamed on the “fact” that computer games cause violent tendencies in the children that have played them. Children are incredibly impressionable; I am admitting to that, however this comes down to a question of parenting, rather than blaming the game itself.
Parents and organizations have protested against games such as GTA4 being released, causing it to be “toned down” for the Australian audience. There are still complaints flying around about why it wasn’t just banned entirely. At the same time, the Australian classification board has refused to introduce an R18+ rating for games.
Just to make myself clear, an R18+ rating would restrict the sale of such a game to impressionable minors, they would only be able to acquire it through their parents. Now, and this should infuriate some people, good parents would not buy this game for their children. Therefore, the rating would work, younger kids wouldn’t be able to play it, and there would be no problem. Adults (i.e. people over 18) should have the fair judgement and upbringing to allow them to look at the games as just that, games, and not see any correlation to the real world.
I was brought up in the video game age. I’ve played everything from kids learning games to the ultra-violent Manhunt (coincidentally now banned in Australia, I bought it just before the ban went in to place). Now Manhunt and GTA centre around drugs, killing and over the top violence. Clearly this means when I see people on the street, the first thing that goes through my head is to go on a gleeful jaunt through a homicidal rampage, right? Wrong. My parents and society as a whole, has taught me that that’s the wrong thing to do. I am a product of good parenting and the social surroundings I am in, not the games that I play.
A recent study in the UK at Sunderland University has shown that while games can produce violent tendencies in kids, “these studies always took children and exposed them to violent video games intended for adults.” (The Press Association) Parents ignore the ratings on the box when they buy games for their kids, and allow them to play games, which are an incredibly powerful learning tool.
Games teach kids to problem solve, work in groups, and develop leadership skills, all of which has been proven and applauded by society as a whole. At the same time, games can teach kids that violence is a means to an end. So how should we solve this issue?
Introduce an R18+ rating. Prospective buyers must present ID at the checkout, similar to buying booze, cigarettes or adult “literature”. The only children who will gain access to these games deemed too violent for children will be a result of either negligence at the store it was bought, or of bad parenting. Negligence can be dealt with at a store level or through legal means. Bad parenting can be dealt with through child services, and the parents own peers.
It’s easy to point the finger at the game as the cause of the problem. No one gets hurt and the problem can be swept under a mat until the next one comes out, as they inevitably will. However, how about we take a look at the parents for a change, those people who supply the games to their impressionable kids then scream bloody murder at the companies who produce them when they’re waiting at their child’s court case ten years later for murder one and grievous bodily harm.
By Chris Tracey
The past few weeks have been a tumultuous time for excited guys and girls waiting for the new Grand Theft Auto game. While reports from all reviewers give the game an outstanding score, the media has been haranguing Rockstar Entertainment about its game. Parents and concerned citizens of Australia have been protesting, petitioning and (god forbid) blogging against this game. They are all saying it is too violent, too extreme and far too dangerous to give our youth in an age of school shootings, gangs and Emo conventions outside Hungry Jacks.
The media has been throwing around accusations at the gaming community for years. Shootings, horrific beatings, rapes, the list goes on and all of these have, at one point or another, been blamed on the “fact” that computer games cause violent tendencies in the children that have played them. Children are incredibly impressionable; I am admitting to that, however this comes down to a question of parenting, rather than blaming the game itself.
Parents and organizations have protested against games such as GTA4 being released, causing it to be “toned down” for the Australian audience. There are still complaints flying around about why it wasn’t just banned entirely. At the same time, the Australian classification board has refused to introduce an R18+ rating for games.
Just to make myself clear, an R18+ rating would restrict the sale of such a game to impressionable minors, they would only be able to acquire it through their parents. Now, and this should infuriate some people, good parents would not buy this game for their children. Therefore, the rating would work, younger kids wouldn’t be able to play it, and there would be no problem. Adults (i.e. people over 18) should have the fair judgement and upbringing to allow them to look at the games as just that, games, and not see any correlation to the real world.
I was brought up in the video game age. I’ve played everything from kids learning games to the ultra-violent Manhunt (coincidentally now banned in Australia, I bought it just before the ban went in to place). Now Manhunt and GTA centre around drugs, killing and over the top violence. Clearly this means when I see people on the street, the first thing that goes through my head is to go on a gleeful jaunt through a homicidal rampage, right? Wrong. My parents and society as a whole, has taught me that that’s the wrong thing to do. I am a product of good parenting and the social surroundings I am in, not the games that I play.
A recent study in the UK at Sunderland University has shown that while games can produce violent tendencies in kids, “these studies always took children and exposed them to violent video games intended for adults.” (The Press Association) Parents ignore the ratings on the box when they buy games for their kids, and allow them to play games, which are an incredibly powerful learning tool.
Games teach kids to problem solve, work in groups, and develop leadership skills, all of which has been proven and applauded by society as a whole. At the same time, games can teach kids that violence is a means to an end. So how should we solve this issue?
Introduce an R18+ rating. Prospective buyers must present ID at the checkout, similar to buying booze, cigarettes or adult “literature”. The only children who will gain access to these games deemed too violent for children will be a result of either negligence at the store it was bought, or of bad parenting. Negligence can be dealt with at a store level or through legal means. Bad parenting can be dealt with through child services, and the parents own peers.
It’s easy to point the finger at the game as the cause of the problem. No one gets hurt and the problem can be swept under a mat until the next one comes out, as they inevitably will. However, how about we take a look at the parents for a change, those people who supply the games to their impressionable kids then scream bloody murder at the companies who produce them when they’re waiting at their child’s court case ten years later for murder one and grievous bodily harm.
Crowd’s an Indicator
By Ash Jones
6 pm is an early start even to see a band you like. 6 pm however is the most convenient time for a venue like The Arena to gather an all ages crowd in to see the Swedish melodic death metal act Soilwork and summon a couple of plump police officers to ensure the youngsters haven’t begun to smoke pot or trash the venue. Add to the 6 o clock start that you’ve been on a stagnant and cold five hour bus trip and have consequently lost the feeling in your legs and you’ve got mine and my friend Jacqui’s experience to get to this show.
No matter how big the act or how long you’ve been a fan, when you reach that physical breaking point you need something truly extraordinary to get you to go that extra mile. So when support act Double Dragon have all their tones at a medium to high volume (rhythm section included) and extremely generic vocals, the lack of dynamic does absolutely nothing. Why is it that the most generally-influenced supports are always the most arrogant with a crowd? Example A: Vocalist Lee yells at the right side of the mosh, “This side of the crowd sucks”. My subconscious response: If this vocalist actually stepped out of the high voltage rumble he is ensnared by he would be able to hear how little a musical offering this is for this gathering of Soilwork fans, under 18’s included.
In fact, I imagine if Double Dragon were watching themselves in a parallel universe, there would be no confusion, and no physical response from them either. When I emerge shaky from windmilling, headbanging, and thrashing to Soilwork’s vast and incredibly brutal musical texturing, my point is complete.
6 pm is an early start even to see a band you like. 6 pm however is the most convenient time for a venue like The Arena to gather an all ages crowd in to see the Swedish melodic death metal act Soilwork and summon a couple of plump police officers to ensure the youngsters haven’t begun to smoke pot or trash the venue. Add to the 6 o clock start that you’ve been on a stagnant and cold five hour bus trip and have consequently lost the feeling in your legs and you’ve got mine and my friend Jacqui’s experience to get to this show.
No matter how big the act or how long you’ve been a fan, when you reach that physical breaking point you need something truly extraordinary to get you to go that extra mile. So when support act Double Dragon have all their tones at a medium to high volume (rhythm section included) and extremely generic vocals, the lack of dynamic does absolutely nothing. Why is it that the most generally-influenced supports are always the most arrogant with a crowd? Example A: Vocalist Lee yells at the right side of the mosh, “This side of the crowd sucks”. My subconscious response: If this vocalist actually stepped out of the high voltage rumble he is ensnared by he would be able to hear how little a musical offering this is for this gathering of Soilwork fans, under 18’s included.
In fact, I imagine if Double Dragon were watching themselves in a parallel universe, there would be no confusion, and no physical response from them either. When I emerge shaky from windmilling, headbanging, and thrashing to Soilwork’s vast and incredibly brutal musical texturing, my point is complete.
The Channel Nine Programming Saga....continues....
Upon hearing the news of the cancellation of Channel Nine’s reality show “My Kids a Star”, my eleven year old cousin exclaimed to the family that she was going to kill herself. Luckily, we managed to persuade her to remain in the land of the living, reassuring her that the program would still air – just not in primetime.
Once upon a time, in the days of media tyrant Kerry Packer, Channel Nine really was “the one”. But recent years have seen a steady decline in ratings and, arguably, program quality. Talented producers and program directors have been pushed away by power hungry network bosses – as detailed in length by Gerald Stone in the 2007 expose, Who Killed Channel 9?
Then again, perhaps quality is not the issue. Nine does not give its programs a chance to find an audience. If something is not an immediate hit, it is moved to a daytime slot or shelved until the non-ratings season. Tipped as the “next great Australian Drama”, “Canal Road” was taken off the air after just one episode. So too, was Nine’s flagship game show “Power of 10” – admittedly a ludicrous idea that suffered even more at the hands of its host – the ever painful Steve Jacobs.
However, those who are missing the “Power of 10”s mindless mediocrity need not wait long for Nine’s next game show offering – and no, I am not talking about it’s resurrection of “Wheel of Fortune”. I’m talking about “Hole in the Wall”, the game show where contestants have to fit through – that’s right – a hole in the wall. Stay tuned – I certainly don’t see how a concept as ingenious as a hole in the wall will ever grow tiresome.
Not even Channel Nine’s recent hit with “Underbelly” can save the network from being the laughing stock of the entire television industry. Even on televisions night of nights, the TV Week Logie Awards, Nine’s programming catastrophe was ridiculed and mocked by a wealth of actors and presenters. My personal favourite comment came from comedy veteran Garry McDonald, who said, “Ironical isn’t it, in the year that David Leckie discovered that he might never be able to give the finger again Channel 9 just keep giving him reasons to”. And let’s not forget which network the Logies was broadcast on – yet another ratings disaster for a network in turmoil.
peter taggart
Once upon a time, in the days of media tyrant Kerry Packer, Channel Nine really was “the one”. But recent years have seen a steady decline in ratings and, arguably, program quality. Talented producers and program directors have been pushed away by power hungry network bosses – as detailed in length by Gerald Stone in the 2007 expose, Who Killed Channel 9?
Then again, perhaps quality is not the issue. Nine does not give its programs a chance to find an audience. If something is not an immediate hit, it is moved to a daytime slot or shelved until the non-ratings season. Tipped as the “next great Australian Drama”, “Canal Road” was taken off the air after just one episode. So too, was Nine’s flagship game show “Power of 10” – admittedly a ludicrous idea that suffered even more at the hands of its host – the ever painful Steve Jacobs.
However, those who are missing the “Power of 10”s mindless mediocrity need not wait long for Nine’s next game show offering – and no, I am not talking about it’s resurrection of “Wheel of Fortune”. I’m talking about “Hole in the Wall”, the game show where contestants have to fit through – that’s right – a hole in the wall. Stay tuned – I certainly don’t see how a concept as ingenious as a hole in the wall will ever grow tiresome.
Not even Channel Nine’s recent hit with “Underbelly” can save the network from being the laughing stock of the entire television industry. Even on televisions night of nights, the TV Week Logie Awards, Nine’s programming catastrophe was ridiculed and mocked by a wealth of actors and presenters. My personal favourite comment came from comedy veteran Garry McDonald, who said, “Ironical isn’t it, in the year that David Leckie discovered that he might never be able to give the finger again Channel 9 just keep giving him reasons to”. And let’s not forget which network the Logies was broadcast on – yet another ratings disaster for a network in turmoil.
peter taggart
Attack of the seeds!
Wherever where my friends and I seem to go…there is always a seedy man waiting to raise an eyebrow, show off a toothless grin and the classic, when we had “Giddy up!” yelled at us (I wish I was joking about that one). Yes, it’s creepy and we never know whether to tag team them or run away in horror.
The scariest thing is that nowhere is safe from these vile creatures anymore. My most recent encounter was the once innocent Westfield Shopping Centre at Chermside. Waiting at the entry of the shopping centre was like starring in a Quentin Tarantino film (Don’t get me wrong, Sin City was amazing… but it had that feel about it). I felt like a hooker when I was greeted by a man who most obviously was his own number one fan. His hair glinted under the streetlights, like the grease at the bottom of a frying pan AFTER sausages were cooked in it (Yes, that bad). “How you doin’,” he said to me- he probably thought he was the Fonz from Happy Days. I just shook my head at him, although it was highly tempting to release my middle finger…
Ingrid Rubie
The scariest thing is that nowhere is safe from these vile creatures anymore. My most recent encounter was the once innocent Westfield Shopping Centre at Chermside. Waiting at the entry of the shopping centre was like starring in a Quentin Tarantino film (Don’t get me wrong, Sin City was amazing… but it had that feel about it). I felt like a hooker when I was greeted by a man who most obviously was his own number one fan. His hair glinted under the streetlights, like the grease at the bottom of a frying pan AFTER sausages were cooked in it (Yes, that bad). “How you doin’,” he said to me- he probably thought he was the Fonz from Happy Days. I just shook my head at him, although it was highly tempting to release my middle finger…
Ingrid Rubie
K.S
The level of stress experienced on today’s university students nationwide is much higher than one might expect.
Stress is defined as burdens, pressures, anxieties, and worries. Everyone has had it or has it in one point in their lives.
Have I studying for that final exam? Do I have time study for that Final Exam? Should I call in sick tomorrow? Is that assignment due tomorrow already? These are all questions and thoughts that are running through the minds of a student every minute, every day of their studying lives. Sometimes these thoughts and questions don’t get answered or done. It all piles up and that is when stress is at its peak and many students are at their breaking points.
Sometimes there are so many things to do and not enough time. And when there’s time, there’s no energy because the person has given up.
More then 50% of students are working more then 25 hours a week and are facing the pressure of saving up for the ever-increasing home loans and rent rates due to interest rates.
Those who have got it all under controlled are either lonely or depressed because they have lost their social lives.
It’s all just all too much for a student. Many students experience poverty during their studying years. The high level of assignment activity results not only into high levels of stress but constant intake of unhealthy food, hair fall out, millions of pimples, tears and the constant seek of money that might be lying around the house.
The level of stress experienced on today’s university students nationwide is much higher than one might expect.
Stress is defined as burdens, pressures, anxieties, and worries. Everyone has had it or has it in one point in their lives.
Have I studying for that final exam? Do I have time study for that Final Exam? Should I call in sick tomorrow? Is that assignment due tomorrow already? These are all questions and thoughts that are running through the minds of a student every minute, every day of their studying lives. Sometimes these thoughts and questions don’t get answered or done. It all piles up and that is when stress is at its peak and many students are at their breaking points.
Sometimes there are so many things to do and not enough time. And when there’s time, there’s no energy because the person has given up.
More then 50% of students are working more then 25 hours a week and are facing the pressure of saving up for the ever-increasing home loans and rent rates due to interest rates.
Those who have got it all under controlled are either lonely or depressed because they have lost their social lives.
It’s all just all too much for a student. Many students experience poverty during their studying years. The high level of assignment activity results not only into high levels of stress but constant intake of unhealthy food, hair fall out, millions of pimples, tears and the constant seek of money that might be lying around the house.
Teach the kids what a nightmare is!
Gone are the days of cute children’s television programs featuring cartoon characters kids could relate to and life-like themes. Programs such as In The Night Garden, Teletubbies and Boobah are nothing short of terrifying – and they’re all brought to you from the crazed mind of Anne Wood.
Call me old fashioned, but these programs strike as creepy and confusing – for me, let alone their pre-school age target market.
Take In The Night Garden, the latest offering from Wood’s team. Featuring Derek Jacobi narrating gibberish for the greater part of the episodes, the show runs for half an hour. It’s hard to engage a toddler for five minutes, let alone 30 – and if they have as much difficulty comprehending the awkward episodes as I do, heaven help them.
It’s the story of a “place that exists between waking and sleeping in a child’s imagination… home to a comical and diverse community of toys, living happily together”. It sounds peachy, but the characters strike you as passive dolls to the narrators will, nodding at his every word – when they’re not having their faces washed by a strange creature, emitting strange noises and running about with no pants on.
Strange noises and pantless, colourful creatures did you say? It’s a popular theme! Narrators whose every word is obeyed? What about the horryifying gibberish languages that run throughout these shows? And their names? One could be forgiven for believing Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, and Po to be cute, but Humbah, Zumbah, Zing Zing Zingbah, Jumbah and Jingbah??
Teletubbies, again, feature a group of wide-eyed, pudgy, colourful creatures. Their friend Noo-Noo the vaccum cleaner, random voice trumpets that pop up eerily when the Teletubbies are out and about, and the televisions that reside in each of the Teletubbies' stomachs were evidently designed to teach kids growing up in world of technological gizmos that machines aren’t scary. That said, the show was linked to the death of a toddler whose life ended trying to hug the television.
And the most terrifying show to grace television, let along children’s television - Boobah - comparable to a bad acid trip. The show sees five Kewpie-headed, gumdrop- shaped creatures flying around and dancing seizure-like, retracting their heads into their bodies and retreating to their “Boohball”, a glowing white ball powered by the laughter of children. Hmm.
To be fair, both Teletubbies and In The Night Garden have won BAFTA awards, and been championed by early childhood education experts. I’m no authority, but I’d prefer to see kids sat in front of Sesame Street.
- Carmen Juarez
Call me old fashioned, but these programs strike as creepy and confusing – for me, let alone their pre-school age target market.
Take In The Night Garden, the latest offering from Wood’s team. Featuring Derek Jacobi narrating gibberish for the greater part of the episodes, the show runs for half an hour. It’s hard to engage a toddler for five minutes, let alone 30 – and if they have as much difficulty comprehending the awkward episodes as I do, heaven help them.
It’s the story of a “place that exists between waking and sleeping in a child’s imagination… home to a comical and diverse community of toys, living happily together”. It sounds peachy, but the characters strike you as passive dolls to the narrators will, nodding at his every word – when they’re not having their faces washed by a strange creature, emitting strange noises and running about with no pants on.
Strange noises and pantless, colourful creatures did you say? It’s a popular theme! Narrators whose every word is obeyed? What about the horryifying gibberish languages that run throughout these shows? And their names? One could be forgiven for believing Tinky Winky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa, and Po to be cute, but Humbah, Zumbah, Zing Zing Zingbah, Jumbah and Jingbah??
Teletubbies, again, feature a group of wide-eyed, pudgy, colourful creatures. Their friend Noo-Noo the vaccum cleaner, random voice trumpets that pop up eerily when the Teletubbies are out and about, and the televisions that reside in each of the Teletubbies' stomachs were evidently designed to teach kids growing up in world of technological gizmos that machines aren’t scary. That said, the show was linked to the death of a toddler whose life ended trying to hug the television.
And the most terrifying show to grace television, let along children’s television - Boobah - comparable to a bad acid trip. The show sees five Kewpie-headed, gumdrop- shaped creatures flying around and dancing seizure-like, retracting their heads into their bodies and retreating to their “Boohball”, a glowing white ball powered by the laughter of children. Hmm.
To be fair, both Teletubbies and In The Night Garden have won BAFTA awards, and been championed by early childhood education experts. I’m no authority, but I’d prefer to see kids sat in front of Sesame Street.
- Carmen Juarez
It seems the days are gone where a bloke would jump in the shower, chuck on a tee and jeans, spray on some smelly stuff and head into town with is mates. Last Saturday night, my style and effort in getting ready, was completely put to shame by the young boys of Brisbane’s nightlife. Not only did my partner stick out like a sore thumb in his jeans and a tee, but my always reliable LBD was no match for the vests, skinny legs jeans, low cut v-necks and necklaces adorned by these 18 year old boys.
I can’t imagine that girls are attracted to boys that pull off a low cut v-neck and skinny leg jeans better then they do. And in that case, what drives these boys to seemingly spend a couple of hours and most of their pay cheque to look- to me- like a female.
As an outsider to this cross-dressing phenomenon, it seems these young boys are not only accepted by the nightclub population, but are undoubtedly at the top of the nightclub hierarchy. One boy, wearing a sparkly white v-neck top, black skinny leg jeans, white boots and a large gold crucifix necklace was dancing with a group of young, bleach-haired girls. There seemed to be a strong correlation between the more you didn’t dress like a bloke and the more chicks you danced with.
I’m not sure if this is just a phase or the ‘manvests’ and v-necks are here to stay- but it definitely doesn’t do anything for me. I don’t know about you other girls, but I don’t want to be asking my man for fashion advice or sharing wardrobes with him- a tee and jeans is enough for me.
I can’t imagine that girls are attracted to boys that pull off a low cut v-neck and skinny leg jeans better then they do. And in that case, what drives these boys to seemingly spend a couple of hours and most of their pay cheque to look- to me- like a female.
As an outsider to this cross-dressing phenomenon, it seems these young boys are not only accepted by the nightclub population, but are undoubtedly at the top of the nightclub hierarchy. One boy, wearing a sparkly white v-neck top, black skinny leg jeans, white boots and a large gold crucifix necklace was dancing with a group of young, bleach-haired girls. There seemed to be a strong correlation between the more you didn’t dress like a bloke and the more chicks you danced with.
I’m not sure if this is just a phase or the ‘manvests’ and v-necks are here to stay- but it definitely doesn’t do anything for me. I don’t know about you other girls, but I don’t want to be asking my man for fashion advice or sharing wardrobes with him- a tee and jeans is enough for me.
Warning- Ride Bus at Own Risk
By Ryley Burroughs
Brisbane bus drivers must have been dealt some vicious blows in their lives. For one human being to carry so much spite that they take delight in inflicting misery on a whole bus-full of commuters, they must have made some pretty unforgiveable high-school enemies. Taking up their jobs in a mission to get their revenge, bus drivers seemingly look for every possible chance to throw you off your seat, jumping on the breaks at the last possible moment and setting the benchmark for reckless driving in its finest.
I would be interested to get a hold of the job criteria for bus drivers, as it seems the role of their jobs is to frighten, frustrate and infuriate as many passengers as possible. Surely the employee of the week gold star must go to the bus driver who causes as much motion sickness as possible, doing whatever in their power to ensure you leave the bus feeling as if you’d just stepped off an Ekka show ride. Whether you’re on-board the bus or sharing the road with one, beware no-one is safe around Brisbane bus drivers!
Brisbane bus drivers must have been dealt some vicious blows in their lives. For one human being to carry so much spite that they take delight in inflicting misery on a whole bus-full of commuters, they must have made some pretty unforgiveable high-school enemies. Taking up their jobs in a mission to get their revenge, bus drivers seemingly look for every possible chance to throw you off your seat, jumping on the breaks at the last possible moment and setting the benchmark for reckless driving in its finest.
I would be interested to get a hold of the job criteria for bus drivers, as it seems the role of their jobs is to frighten, frustrate and infuriate as many passengers as possible. Surely the employee of the week gold star must go to the bus driver who causes as much motion sickness as possible, doing whatever in their power to ensure you leave the bus feeling as if you’d just stepped off an Ekka show ride. Whether you’re on-board the bus or sharing the road with one, beware no-one is safe around Brisbane bus drivers!
Will the politics ever stop!?
Will the politics ever stop!?
By Ben Milne
Why are grown men still feeling the need to let the politics in sport make their decisions for them? Instead of stepping up and selecting players based on their deserved merits, certain selection panels still seem to have very distorted, biased opinions on who makes the cut and who doesn’t.
Of course, I’m basing this on yesterdays Queensland State of Origin team which was named to play New South Wales in a fortnights time on May 21. For a lot of players the politics become clear back in little league when they realise someone is only on the team because their uncle coaches the side. Or, another player gets to travel away due to the family friend being the regional selector.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying every player has inside assistance allowing them to make the squad, I’m still a believer of fair play “to some extent”. But, how Scott Prince, the most in-form half of the NRL, can miss out on a spot in the Origin squad and be subjected to watching the game from home is beyond me.
Karmichael’s a fair player on any given day, and has represented both Australia and Queensland previously. But, as a half, he’s not even in the same ball park as Prince, who’s a class above him. Prince has been directing his ladder leading Titans around all season, and watching his highlights reel in comparison to Hunt’s this year clearly speaks for it self.
By Ben Milne
Why are grown men still feeling the need to let the politics in sport make their decisions for them? Instead of stepping up and selecting players based on their deserved merits, certain selection panels still seem to have very distorted, biased opinions on who makes the cut and who doesn’t.
Of course, I’m basing this on yesterdays Queensland State of Origin team which was named to play New South Wales in a fortnights time on May 21. For a lot of players the politics become clear back in little league when they realise someone is only on the team because their uncle coaches the side. Or, another player gets to travel away due to the family friend being the regional selector.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying every player has inside assistance allowing them to make the squad, I’m still a believer of fair play “to some extent”. But, how Scott Prince, the most in-form half of the NRL, can miss out on a spot in the Origin squad and be subjected to watching the game from home is beyond me.
Karmichael’s a fair player on any given day, and has represented both Australia and Queensland previously. But, as a half, he’s not even in the same ball park as Prince, who’s a class above him. Prince has been directing his ladder leading Titans around all season, and watching his highlights reel in comparison to Hunt’s this year clearly speaks for it self.
Laughter is not the best medicine (if you OD on it)
By James Schultz
Don’t you just hate happy people? You know, those really happy people. The type of people that say, “What a lovely day” when it’s flooding and all your things are wet. The type of people that say “not a cloud in the sky” when your house is on fire and the smoke cloud’s unbearable.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m by no means an anti-happiness, Grinch-like, love-crushing monster. A little bit of happiness can go a long way. I don’t sit around at the Queen-street mall bitching about all of life’s troubles with the local emo outfit. I do however; vent my anger when I’m angry.
Of course, this raises its own problems. Then you have the people who try to sympathise with you when they have no idea how you’re feeling. You know, the type of people who say, “I know how you feel” when your dog has just died and they’ve never had a dog… or a cat. The intentions are there but they just haven’t got a clue.
Still, I propose that a little bit of anger is a good thing. I mean it can’t be good having it all bottled up. The last thing we want is another school shooting or god forbid, another emo group plaguing our malls.
So, next time you kick your toe, don’t just stand there and marvel at the wonderful architecture of the door. Scream, curse, jump around. Whatever you do, do it. I’m sure you’ll feel better for it and, so will your family. After all, you’ll be venting your anger on the door, not your mother.
A little bit of happiness can go a long way, but so can a bit of anger.
Don’t you just hate happy people? You know, those really happy people. The type of people that say, “What a lovely day” when it’s flooding and all your things are wet. The type of people that say “not a cloud in the sky” when your house is on fire and the smoke cloud’s unbearable.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m by no means an anti-happiness, Grinch-like, love-crushing monster. A little bit of happiness can go a long way. I don’t sit around at the Queen-street mall bitching about all of life’s troubles with the local emo outfit. I do however; vent my anger when I’m angry.
Of course, this raises its own problems. Then you have the people who try to sympathise with you when they have no idea how you’re feeling. You know, the type of people who say, “I know how you feel” when your dog has just died and they’ve never had a dog… or a cat. The intentions are there but they just haven’t got a clue.
Still, I propose that a little bit of anger is a good thing. I mean it can’t be good having it all bottled up. The last thing we want is another school shooting or god forbid, another emo group plaguing our malls.
So, next time you kick your toe, don’t just stand there and marvel at the wonderful architecture of the door. Scream, curse, jump around. Whatever you do, do it. I’m sure you’ll feel better for it and, so will your family. After all, you’ll be venting your anger on the door, not your mother.
A little bit of happiness can go a long way, but so can a bit of anger.
Review of Gallery of Modern Art
I recently paid a visit to Brisbane’s Gallery of Modern Art and left it irate! I thought, “Aren’t artists optimistic!”, in the way they think that the simplest things will be classified as “art”. I apologise for my lack of appreciation but these “pieces” are not art! A cardboard box, that’s not art. A Lego tower, that’s not art. I think if Modern Art had genuine boundaries of what can be classified as art that would probably allow me to take it more seriously, until then I’ll steer clear.
By Lucinda Ross
By Lucinda Ross
Park and Ride? Not a chance
Green Heart City Smart.
The new Brisbane City Council program to make Australia’s most sustainable city.
The deal is we’re supposed to be carbon neutral. All that jazz. Catch the bus to work, plant a tree. Easy enough right?
Sure! Unless, that is, that you live anywhere near Westfield Garden City and have to park and ride from there.
The first morning I decided to skip the hour-long bumper to bumper crawl along the freeway by car, I arrived at Garden City just before 7:30am. Just in time, I thought, to secure the first parking space of the day. Surely it’s far too early for the rest of the world to want a car park.
Much to my dismay, the entire measly Park and Ride car park was full to bursting!
Right, okay, well its one of the biggest shopping centres in Brisbane, plenty more to choose from, right?
Wrong.
Much to my confusion and anger, countless chains, invisible to the driving eye, blocked every single other car park in the centre. What is this? All those spaces gone to waste?
But wait, that’s it, Woolworthes opens at 8am! Aha! Surely that car park will be open!
Wrong again.
Upon driving up the Woolies ramp I am greeted by what is possibly the world’s largest security guard who is kind enough to inform me that unless I’m a customer (and not a commuter or staff) this area is off limits.
Right.
So let me get this straight.
Campbell Newman and his can-do team want us to catch the bus.
But how am I supposed to do that without parking my car?
The next day I return to slogging it out on the freeway. At least this way I know my car park is waiting for me.
Shannon Gimpel
The new Brisbane City Council program to make Australia’s most sustainable city.
The deal is we’re supposed to be carbon neutral. All that jazz. Catch the bus to work, plant a tree. Easy enough right?
Sure! Unless, that is, that you live anywhere near Westfield Garden City and have to park and ride from there.
The first morning I decided to skip the hour-long bumper to bumper crawl along the freeway by car, I arrived at Garden City just before 7:30am. Just in time, I thought, to secure the first parking space of the day. Surely it’s far too early for the rest of the world to want a car park.
Much to my dismay, the entire measly Park and Ride car park was full to bursting!
Right, okay, well its one of the biggest shopping centres in Brisbane, plenty more to choose from, right?
Wrong.
Much to my confusion and anger, countless chains, invisible to the driving eye, blocked every single other car park in the centre. What is this? All those spaces gone to waste?
But wait, that’s it, Woolworthes opens at 8am! Aha! Surely that car park will be open!
Wrong again.
Upon driving up the Woolies ramp I am greeted by what is possibly the world’s largest security guard who is kind enough to inform me that unless I’m a customer (and not a commuter or staff) this area is off limits.
Right.
So let me get this straight.
Campbell Newman and his can-do team want us to catch the bus.
But how am I supposed to do that without parking my car?
The next day I return to slogging it out on the freeway. At least this way I know my car park is waiting for me.
Shannon Gimpel
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
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