I just wanted you guys to know that I am taking part in Dry July this year, to raise money for the NSW Cancer Survivors Centre. This is a great charity that looks at the physical, emotional and logistical needs of people who have faced cancer and are now trying to get back home and continue their recovery.
My Dry July team-mate (and housemate) Edmund Iffland has started offering art-based incentives to donate to cancer treatment at Wollongong Hospital.
I guess I need to trump his offerings with something you want just as much or more than his stupid caricatures. (But jokes aside you should still pledge to Edmund because it’s for charity, dude).
HERE IS WHAT I PLEDGE.
A personalised celebrity fan fiction of your choice FOR ANY DONATION.
Just tell me which celebrity, the setting you desire, and any interesting object/prop/detailand I will write you a story to put on your Inspiration Pin-Board.
I’ll do this for any donation, but the bigger the donation, the better (and longer) the story.
This is one of those ‘sneak up on you’ NOs, the kind that you insist is actually a YES, right up to the moment that you find yourself in foetal position, wrenching off what used to be your favourite pair of underpants, and vomming into a bile-soaked gutter.
Running away from this guy, like this guy.
Houses of horrors are deceptive. At first they seem innocuous and tacky and something you can ironically enjoy. “That vampire bride is wearing Crocs! Hah hah!” you openly mock, while also noting that the sign by the door, the one next to the ‘NO REFUNDS’ written in faux-blood, lets you know that this ride is suitable for children over the age of 10, but “as parents, you know your kid better than anyone else”, so you’d best determine for yourself whether this ride is going to make them shit themselves in the middle of the Royal Easter Show.
Well, I’m 26 now and that sign is WAY off. Either I’m not made of very stern stuff (which, let’s face it, is pretty likely) or these guys need to take a good hard look at the Australian National Trauma Guidelines and re-evaluate their shtick.
I will not soon forget this House o’Horrors, in the same way that the arm bruises it gave me will not fade. The whole thing was thematically based on the idea of old Hollywood horror films, the sorts of films that are all just concepts and not REAL in my head, cos the only sorts of movies I tend to watch are teeny rom coms and maybe the odd impressive indie film about people-smuggling or whatevs. So we line up to go to the house; it’s me and an anonymous friend that for the purposes of this story I will call…Nikita…and we’re scoffing and LOLing our way through the line, and the guy at the front with maybe fake acne scabs but maybe not fake acne scabs is like “Aaaaare you scaaaared?” and we LAUGH in his FACE and just kinda go “HUH” and he gives a little wry grin that we don’t read into just now, but we will later.
And then it’s ON. And here is what I’m really interested in talking about. The way that irony and detachment are pretty groovy and fashionable all the time from the vantage of your free trade cafe or vintage dog-wear boutique, until you find yourself in the GRIP of something BIGGER THAN YOU. When you are running, and screaming, and hiding, and wading through bodies, and little corpse brides are whispering in your ear, and two SEPARATE guys with chainsaws chase you, and there are strobe lights, and Nikita digs her nails into your arm until you have to yell “NIKITA STOP – I KNOW YOU’RE SCARED BUT YOU’RE HURTING ME” and then Nikita uses you as a human shield against the second chainsaw guy, and then you heave and scream your way back into the free air and you guys are so exhilarated and overwhelmed and FREAKING OUT that you bump heads against each other, and it’s lucky you both wear nerdy playwright glasses, or you’d be the one hurling in the gutter.
SO I guess what I’m saying is that, Houses of Horror teach me important lessons about the power of adrenaline, and about the unhelpfulness of detachment, and about how good Nikita is in an emergency vs how good Jess is in an emergency. Whilst I value all of those lessons, I’m also quite happy to never repeat them again. Ever again.
We did eat cheese on a stick beforehand, though, which for the record – is a YES.
This is going to be a complex and multi-layered post because it is going to be referencing the thoughts and feelings of TWO cultcha vultchas. Please welcome guest-blogger Costa to Would Jess Like It.
Costa is good at a lot of things – sassy wordplay, legal matters, and “who dat bitch and what she doing” culture analysis. And he has some things to tell you today.
We have both been struck by the recent fizzling of Kim and Kris Kardashian’s marriage.”WHAT A BUMMER” we both said, “they obviously both tried so hard to make it work. You can see the strain around Kim’s eyes from the effort. You can see that marriage means a lot to them. You can see that this will KEEP EM UP AT NIGHT the way it’s keeping up both of us respectively, so we end up calling each other at 3am on weeknights and just breathing shakily down the dial. This is BAD NEWS.”
Except. This is a chance for us to re-frame our conversations about marriage equality. The more that these awful emotionbot leaches like Kim ‘n’ co continue to chip away at the insitution of marriage, the more that platitudes of “marriage is a sacred act between man and woman” lose their legitimacy. If only that was what she intended, right?
Kim Kardashian, you rile me bad. Let’s start with the sham marriage and move out.
Firstly, it is a slap in the face to the 434 gays that pick your clothes, paint your nails, match your handbag, road test your shoes, do your long hair, take that long hair and suture it to your scalp hair, and douche you before a night on the town for you to use marriage as a cheap way to get attention, money, attention and money. This is because those 430 gays and their gay brothers and sisters are right now doing their utmost to prove to the straight world that they should be allowed to marry. That they won’t cheapen or defile the institution. How dare you piss on this thing for a quid and a laugh, when there are those out there fighting earnestly for it? Those, incidently, that are probably 2 feet away from you right now wiping spray tan off your elbows!
And what the fuck kind of society do we have that allows scum like this to get married, but not champions like me and my gay mates? (Editor’s note: the author’s a mo.)
Though maybe we should thank Kim Kardashian for bringing to light what’s really going on in the marriage debate. The wedding of Kim Kardashian and The Groom makes abundantly clear that it is perfectly OK for straights to cheapen and defile the institution. There is nothing stopping her or every other straight from doing that. No laws are being bandied about to stop straights from wrecking the institution from the inside out. As John Waters says, if you really want to protect heterosexual marriage, outlaw heterosexual divorce. It seems the problem isn’t about people not taking marriage seriously, it is simply about keeping gays out.
So thanks Kim Kardashian. If your marriage was some kind of awesome piece of performance art on the world stage to tease out the paradoxes in marriage inequality, then you have shown yourself to be a deft provocateur. If, however, the more likely explanation is true – that you’re nothing more than a bullshit artist trying to make a buck regardless of the fans you betray, the institutions you tarnish, and the attention you suck – then you suck.
And another thing! Your main demographic is impressionable young girls. They deserve better than you (Editors Note: and Belle from Twilight). They shouldn’t be getting the idea that marriage is just a party rather than a commitment. That you don’t have to love the guy; you don’t even have to like him. That all that matters is the dress, the cake, how you look and the profit margins. That it’s not about love, it’s about money. Now that is a really traditional view of marriage.
And frick, one last thing!!! Who ARE you Kim Kardashian?! I know your media persona, but is there a real *YOU* under there? How can anyone (yourself included!) ever tell what’s real and what’s not when you’re willing to fake something as important as a relationship and a marriage, simply because it would make good TV and make good money. Maybe there is a real you under all there, or maybe by now the mask has become your face. Or maybe the fact you were born and raised by a family that could give this kind of scam their full blessing suggests a ‘you’ that isn’t merely opportunistic, lying surface never had a chance of being nurtured in the first place.
Thank you Costa. And let’s take this as a call to arms. Let’s take Kim’s radical performative statement to heart, and bring it home. Let’s cheapen and defile this institution so bad that the only way to redeem it is to outlaw all marriage and make everybody equal under the law.
Let’s turn this sour egg into a delicious cheesy omelette, seasoned with great things like education garlic and mind-broadening parsley.And then we can all share a breakfast of FREEDOM!
– I paid my own $7.50 for that 2 litre tub. Not your $7.50.
– It was just a tiny smidge. I didn’t, like, finish off the whole 2 litres.
– Why is it missing then?
– I think it’s actually a favour for you.
– What?
– I think your hair is bristly and thin and shitty and you need to use a much better quality shampoo than something that comes in a 2 litre trough and costs $7.50.
– So you hid it?
– Yes.
– I think I’d like to make my own hair decisions, Agatha.
– I think that updo you had at your cousin’s Bar Mitzvah begs to differ, Horty.
Long and unpleasant pause.
– Give it back.
– No.
– Give it back.
– NO.
– Seriously.
– You need a shampoo that protects and moisturises. You don’t want a shampoo that, 1 day without washing, leaves you looking like this, like a hideous dying hag hobbling into our kitchen wailing for some sweet sweet shampoo. Longterm protection and shine. Longterm care and premium glossiness.
– I can’t afford that Aveda stuff. It’s really nice and it’s full of buruti oil or some shit, but it costs $50 a tube and NO WAY am I paying that shit. I don’t care how luscious and shiny. I don’t care what sort of baby animal I feel like. I don’t care that the aromatherapy is simply divine. I am not paying that sort of money. Not with my medical bills for this rare spinal condition. Not with my speech therapy classes. Not with my professional choir sponsorship bills. I cannot afford a better shampoo so I will use the 2 litre tub that costs $7.50 thank you very much. And I will not pretend “it’s so much better than the posh brands” and “how did they keep it SECRET for so LONG”, but I will just use it cos IT IS WHAT IT IS and you can’t do any more than that.
Hortence rips open Agatha’s chest and rib cage, wrenches out what should be her heart, and pulls out a blood-slimed bottle of Tresemme.
– Ladies. When you just need some shampoo that is okay but not amazing, but won’t cost you $50 a tube. Use Tresemme.
Tonight, my funny friend Caro said something funny. She said that whenever she wears high heels she feels a bit like a kid dressing up as an adult, because high heels just don’t feel natural, they don’t feel right, and all of us nodded vehemently and agreed.
THIS IS CARO.
This got me thinking. Yknow what also makes me feel like a kid dressing like an adult?
EVERYTHING RESPONSIBLE THAT RESPONSIBLE ADULTS DO.
Tax. Grocery shopping. Netbanking. Disposing of dead insects. Dusting my desk. Setting an alarm. Finding new pens. Getting a passport. Increasing your credit limit. Ringing your mobile phone company. Investing in a paperweight. Watering plants. Framing something arty. Buying batteries for anything bluetooth-capable. Syncing your mobile contacts. Remembering to wear a watch. Writing a to-do list. Getting the right-sized staples. Swimming caps. Going for walks for spinal health. Updating your glasses prescription. Getting a new pillow. Ironing anything. Taking off nail polish using nail polish remover. Backing up your computer files. Ordering your playlists into cohesion. Watching documentaries. Decorating. Investing in a windchime. Cooking with beans. Buying an expensive kettle. Learning to turn on an electric fire. Couch-shopping. Joining an aquatic centre. Expiry dates. Alcohol. Dietary supplements. Spirituality. Star signs. Wearing the right clothes for that day’s weather. EVERYTHING.
But mainly, it’s tax. Tax freaks me out so much that the thought of it makes me want to hide in that weird misbalanced set of shelves we have in our bathroom, which would probably topple over taking me with it, but then tax would be the least of my problems. Tax freaks me out so much. Tax is the thing I have nightmares about, where a tax vaccuum cleaner chases me down a long windowless hallway, then affixes its suction nozzle into my belly button and sucks out any joyful experience I might have ever had in my life.
I WILL GET YOU JUST WATCH ME
I guess what I’m trying to say is that being responsible is not that fun, but probably pretty important. And when you grow up and turn responsible, you may just see that everything isn’t really so hard, and as a result have fewer psychological nightmares, or at least ones that are less transparent in their symbolism.
Maybe life is just something we stumble our way through; a series of progressively pricklier brambles that we dodge and weave. And when we get to the end we can dust off our hands and say “WELL AT LEAST WE TRIED”. And then lurch eyeball-first into the vacuum cleaner.
Simon is a writer. He works in the important real world as a writer and he rides a bike and likes to talk about that, and he also plays the saxophone. As you can see, Simon has many skills.
Simon has recently developed a new skill, which is the capturing of a human’s spiritual essence by the physical rendering of their face and body through strokes of charcoal onto parchment, also known as ‘drawing’.
Recently Simon was commissioned to draw his old childhood friend Jess and here is the result:
Spot-fucking-ON.
From the dog-themed setting to the dog-themed shoes, to the mismatching clothes, to the hint of a mustard coloured jumper, to the drama masks, to the asymmetrical hair, to my best pair of nunchuks: Simon has got it going on.
He also made us a back-up poster for Sprout just in case we need to punch people in the face with amazingness:
SPROUT IN YOUR FACE
You can check out the rest of Simon’s work at his facebook page, here. My highlights are Michael Jackson, Marilyn Monroe and the famous Britney/Madonna pash.
I understand why some people want to be a regular at a café. Every morning, in you plop, like clockwork, and you sit at your nice dimly lit table – just enough light to keep reading Jane Eyre even though for the first 150 pages, that bitch is a draaaag, but not too much for the spunky barista to see the bags under your eyes and those bobby pins that you’ve had stuck in the same piece of hair for over a week, as he serves you your Turkish bread toast.
And here is the first problem with being a regular at a café.
I cannot understand the idea of ‘I want to go to this place everyday cos I just love the way they make vegemite Turkish toast’. Vegemite Turkish toast is the easiest thing in the world to make. And Turkish toast plus butter? Taste party in your mouth, with everyone who’s an amazing party animal: invited.
On par with Ferran Adrià.
And this is the paradox. Most ‘regulars’ at cafes order really normal daily breakfast foods. A simple muesli, a simple toast. Things you really can make at home and save $9. And therefore in my head, there is only one reason to be a regular at a breakfast café –
You are in love with the barista.
There’s no other justification for coming in every day. There’s no other reason to get out of bed 30 minutes earlier than you have to. There’s no other reason to pretend you read the Financial Review over breakfast, rather than laughing at the conservative shit Georgie says on ‘Girls on the Grill’ on the Today show.
8am is too early to be hot and mysterious, and everyone knows baristas are usually such premium property that the odds are they’re not interested in you and you’re wasting your $9 when you could PIGGY BANK that shit for a trip to Thailand over Christmas or maybe more gourmet dinners “with the girls”. I’m sorry I had to say that, I know it was harsh, but IT IS WHAT IT IS, these stereotypes exist for a reason, it doesn’t mean life is fair, AND THE BARISTA IS NOT IN LOVE WITH YOU BACK, HE IS ONLY DOING HIS JOB AND TRYING NOT TO BURN YOUR MILK so really you should just save your $9 and maybe your pride too and Try. Again. Later.
HE IS TOO COOL FOR YOU ESPECIALLY AT 7am
Here’s my advice, because you asked for it or something. Stay at home, make your own buttery toast, and save your café-flirting for at least lunchtime – when you can be sure your clothes aren’t inside out, you don’t have crusty bits of sleep in your eyes, and there’s a much more accessible strain of barista on duty.
Dance music doesn’t beat around the bush. Dance music doesn’t shirk any issue cos it’s embarrassing or difficult to express. Dance music is all, “this is how I feel bitches, and deal with it or get outta my face.”
I’ve been listening to a lot of Pitbull lately (recommended) and I think I’ve summarised his approach to songwriting for you.
"Seriously I know what I'm doing."
A typical Pitbull song goes like this –
STAY IN THIS CLUB
THERE IS A GREAT BEAT IN THIS CLUB
PEOPLE FIND YOU SEXY IN THIS CLUB
HOW AWESOME IS BEING IN THIS CLUB
DRINK SOME MORE VODKA SODA RIGHT NOW
I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE THIS CLUB
EVERYTHING GOOD ABOUT THE WORLD IS IN THIS CLUB
THAT DUDE OR LADY IS SUPER HOT IN THIS CLUB
POUR THE VODKA DOWN MY THROAT BITCHES
POUR IT I SAID POUR IT I SAID POUR IT
I AM SO HAPPY I COULD DIE
And you know, sometimes when you’re all Feisted out, or Bat for Lashes just ain’t cutting the mustard – well, you know what you’ve gotta do.
I like to go to my local dog park a lot, just to get some exercise and breathe a bit of fresh air, and not cry at all. And when I go to my local dog park, one of my absolute favourite things to do is get lost in the amazingness of a few well-trained dogs.
Heart cockles: WARMED.
Today, a man waited out the front of Sydney Park with his two dogs. They sat at his feet, unleashed, right next to roaring traffic. There was no bulging fear-vein on his forehead that they’d run onto the road. There was no “SIT SNAPPY SIT” spitting out of his mouth. There wasn’t even the patended “pushing your bum down til it makes contact with the floor in order to make you fucking sit like a proper dog”. No. These dogs were well-trained. The owner could rest easy, after years of obedience training getting in the way of quality time with his wife, the resultant squabbles chipping away at and eventually ending his marriage, and now leaving him alone with just Snappy and Shithead.
And I was impressed.
And yet, the flipside. After entering the park, and doing my requisite exercising/breathing/emotional stability chants, I sat down on a park bench. I was looking at the sunset and listening to some ‘inspirational dusk music’ when a little white terrier came snuffling up, seemingly smiling at me with its gummy little mouth, finding little yummy nuggets of beetles and bird shit and grass seeds to eat and maybe vomit up in a few hours on his owner’s living room floor. The owner was all, “Roderick! RODERICK! Come back here RIGHT NOW! Get away from the awkward girl who comes to the dog park every day, SANS DOG! Stop eating that shit! Stop being so badly-trained!”
This was the only dog who’d ventured towards my sentry post. All the others scented the vague whiff of dogsperation (that’s dog-desperation for the uninitiated) and went “nuh uh”. But this naughty, badly-trained lil scamp decided to wander off the beaten path, towards a possible dognapper disguised in an over-worn mustard jumper, just because he thought it’d be fun.
So I concede a tie here. After all, what is good training between friends? Especially as the person who never has to deal with the dog and its needs beyond a casual pat and hug? As far as I’m concerned: you’re all just dogs. And you’re WONDERFUL.
I’d like to take a quiet moment to reflect on all the rich and juicy life lessons we’ve learnt from Lindsay Lohan’s diverse body of films, and the ways in which they can inform us in everyday life.
Bitch is a right Elia Kazan.
Lessons include:
The Parent Trap: Family togetherness is a Good Thing, as are housekeepers, ranches, and your own fugly fashion line that includes BRIDAL HATS.
Labor Pains: Honesty is Really Important Too, I Guess.
I Know Who Killed Me: Sometimes life is ugly and badly acted.
Georgia Rule: Innocence, once lost, shat on, and stubbed into the ground with a stiletto heel, cannot be regained.
Herbie Fully Loaded: You, a woman, can do fucking anything. YOU FUCKING CAN, BITCH.
Mean Girls: Don’t be a douchebag if you’re not naturally a douchebag, because shit will backfire and bite you in the arse, and I’m mixing metaphors but you know what I mean. If you are naturally a douchebag, then go you good thing, don’t let me stop you.
Freaky Friday: Families are all very different and complicated in their own ways, and your family really does want the best for you, it’s just we live in really tough climes and communicate is never quite complete, yknow, and sometimes all it takes is a simple mother-daughter body swap with hilarious consequences to drill that point right on in.
