am i supposed to know what an oxford comma is vampire weekend.
i'm not sure whether you're being ironic when you're all 'who gives a fuck about an oxford comma', because i don't...but now i'm questioning my intelligence - am i supposed to give a fuck about an oxford comma?
it's the only song of theirs that i've really come to like and for the life of me i can't make head nor tail of it. how embarrassment.
i learnt some things about joni mitchell this morning, from watching the television. who knew that useful information actually came from the tv. i didn't. so, i watched some joni then waited the what, 12 hours until top model came on. lol.
i painted my nails like a 12 year old emo girl today. toenails toe. pink with scraggy black tips. i'm such a rocker now. *my chemical romance* radcore.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
'don't worry 'bout nothin''
hey bitches.
so i've made this ridiculous new years resolution, already - to write a little more in my blog. I've decided that it'll be therepeutic. like getting a haircut. i realised the other day that sitting in a chair for an hour talking to a total strange acheives two things. you're either more self aware of how completely fucked up you are. or, your hair is shorter. sometimes, a hairdresser can help you achieve both outcomes. this is their magic.
recently i've also found this love for what might be described in a particularly vehement way as oz hip hop. so yeah. fucked if i know why. but muph and plutonic, bliss and eso and the hilltop hoods have snuck their cheeky bitch way into my music collections. sodding bastards.
so i've made this ridiculous new years resolution, already - to write a little more in my blog. I've decided that it'll be therepeutic. like getting a haircut. i realised the other day that sitting in a chair for an hour talking to a total strange acheives two things. you're either more self aware of how completely fucked up you are. or, your hair is shorter. sometimes, a hairdresser can help you achieve both outcomes. this is their magic.
recently i've also found this love for what might be described in a particularly vehement way as oz hip hop. so yeah. fucked if i know why. but muph and plutonic, bliss and eso and the hilltop hoods have snuck their cheeky bitch way into my music collections. sodding bastards.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
The brilliant institution that is Semper Floreat allowed my good self the undeserved pleasure of seeing British India at the immaculate Tivoli theatre.
I don’t mean to rain on your parade of self importance, but if you weren’t there, you have managed to become a little less cool. Short story is, it was amazing. British India played to a packed –out house and impressed the pants of the crowd – literally and figuratively.
The support bands lead up to everyone’s favourite flavour of the month oz-rock outfit perfectly. This certainly wasn’t a show where stabbing yourself in the eye was preferable to listening to the support: no jingle-jangle acoustic foppishness or weird electro-boy madness. First up was Black Mustang. Here was rock so classic that my mum would be a fan – that’s not an insult, my mother is much cooler than yours. The influence of assorted greats from back in the day was worn proudly on the bands sleeve – but not in an offensive, Wolfmother-esque ‘we’re trying to trick you into thinking this is perfectly original’ kind of way.
Following up was Dead Video. The best analogy I could come up with while appreciating these guys was this: they made a noise I would expect the White Stripes to make if Brendon Urie was on his knees in front of Jack White for the entire performance. Electric-excitability abounded and curly fuzzy hair was never so fashionable. My girlfriends and I agreed that if we had legs like any of the boys in the band we’d have been at the cattle-call to star in that Jennifer Hawkins hosted clap-trap.
Without a terrible lot more ado British India took the stage. They pounded out right-now pop-rock masterpieces that if you haven’t heard on triple j lately, then you clearly haven’t been listening. So impressive was the performance that some guy got naked. I kid you not. There was a nude dude sitting on another (clothed) mans shoulders and cheering quite happily. I was particularly curious as to why security was removing crowd-surfing moshers, but that this guy in his full glory was totally cool. Apparently my sensitivities are misplaced.
Mr British India, Declan Melia, comes out in shirt that looked like it was designed by William Morris of the red-house-centric arts and crafts movement. Apart from my delight at being able to use one of my arts courses, be it just to sound pompous, I was also delighted for the duration of the show. I think I love him. What I didn’t love however was the skinny-folksy girl (all high-waisted soft denim skirt and delicate blonde hair) dancing to the side of stage. A bit of the time you could have defined her position as ON STAGE. My rage at this girl may OR may not be based entirely on jealousy.
So by the end of the night I’d seen a naked man in a crowd of dressed punters, gotten a cigarette burn on my wrist, and had a cheesy-b from my favourite burger emporium. Needless to say, nothing could have made me much happier.
I don’t mean to rain on your parade of self importance, but if you weren’t there, you have managed to become a little less cool. Short story is, it was amazing. British India played to a packed –out house and impressed the pants of the crowd – literally and figuratively.
The support bands lead up to everyone’s favourite flavour of the month oz-rock outfit perfectly. This certainly wasn’t a show where stabbing yourself in the eye was preferable to listening to the support: no jingle-jangle acoustic foppishness or weird electro-boy madness. First up was Black Mustang. Here was rock so classic that my mum would be a fan – that’s not an insult, my mother is much cooler than yours. The influence of assorted greats from back in the day was worn proudly on the bands sleeve – but not in an offensive, Wolfmother-esque ‘we’re trying to trick you into thinking this is perfectly original’ kind of way.
Following up was Dead Video. The best analogy I could come up with while appreciating these guys was this: they made a noise I would expect the White Stripes to make if Brendon Urie was on his knees in front of Jack White for the entire performance. Electric-excitability abounded and curly fuzzy hair was never so fashionable. My girlfriends and I agreed that if we had legs like any of the boys in the band we’d have been at the cattle-call to star in that Jennifer Hawkins hosted clap-trap.
Without a terrible lot more ado British India took the stage. They pounded out right-now pop-rock masterpieces that if you haven’t heard on triple j lately, then you clearly haven’t been listening. So impressive was the performance that some guy got naked. I kid you not. There was a nude dude sitting on another (clothed) mans shoulders and cheering quite happily. I was particularly curious as to why security was removing crowd-surfing moshers, but that this guy in his full glory was totally cool. Apparently my sensitivities are misplaced.
Mr British India, Declan Melia, comes out in shirt that looked like it was designed by William Morris of the red-house-centric arts and crafts movement. Apart from my delight at being able to use one of my arts courses, be it just to sound pompous, I was also delighted for the duration of the show. I think I love him. What I didn’t love however was the skinny-folksy girl (all high-waisted soft denim skirt and delicate blonde hair) dancing to the side of stage. A bit of the time you could have defined her position as ON STAGE. My rage at this girl may OR may not be based entirely on jealousy.
So by the end of the night I’d seen a naked man in a crowd of dressed punters, gotten a cigarette burn on my wrist, and had a cheesy-b from my favourite burger emporium. Needless to say, nothing could have made me much happier.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
The Life and Times of a Drunken Teenage Harpy
or
a 20 year old with sagging breasts tells of her adventures
or
A series of petty insecurities.
These are the possible titles for my biography.
I'm off the belief now that television is lying to us. Sex and The City has us deceived. RomComs, of course, are of the utmost bollocks. However, I want to believe it all. Oh Sigh!
I'm looking to believe that when I'm a rock star, I'll give my money to the hippies that harrass me in the street looking for alms for their pitiful excuses for charitable organisations. My mantra will be thus: 'if it's cute and it's dying, then it will deserve my ill-begotten cash'. This will include, but not limited to baby seals.
I'm hoping, probably in vain, to be a dowdy, brunette Carrie Bradshaw with my own personal Mr Big.
The third option is waiting to be a shorter, thinner Bridget Jones. See: The Wombats - Kill the Director. Until all of this happens, I'll continue to fumble along as the suffix to RomCom without any of the saccharine gratification. I'm a fat Renee Zellweger without her Mr Darcy. I don't even get an arrogant, foppish mistake...
a 20 year old with sagging breasts tells of her adventures
or
A series of petty insecurities.
These are the possible titles for my biography.
I'm off the belief now that television is lying to us. Sex and The City has us deceived. RomComs, of course, are of the utmost bollocks. However, I want to believe it all. Oh Sigh!
I'm looking to believe that when I'm a rock star, I'll give my money to the hippies that harrass me in the street looking for alms for their pitiful excuses for charitable organisations. My mantra will be thus: 'if it's cute and it's dying, then it will deserve my ill-begotten cash'. This will include, but not limited to baby seals.
I'm hoping, probably in vain, to be a dowdy, brunette Carrie Bradshaw with my own personal Mr Big.
The third option is waiting to be a shorter, thinner Bridget Jones. See: The Wombats - Kill the Director. Until all of this happens, I'll continue to fumble along as the suffix to RomCom without any of the saccharine gratification. I'm a fat Renee Zellweger without her Mr Darcy. I don't even get an arrogant, foppish mistake...
Thursday, July 24, 2008
i am your bitch
evidently, it seems, i am the bitch for all stupid, non-committal boys - nationwide.
must stop propositioning my friends. they're not interested. they make this perfectly clear by walking into parties without saying hello to you, even though they're but metres away.
stop being into cunts. step one.
start using proper grammar. Capital letters. Using full stops and commas at appropriate times. Learning to spell.
must stop propositioning my friends. they're not interested. they make this perfectly clear by walking into parties without saying hello to you, even though they're but metres away.
stop being into cunts. step one.
start using proper grammar. Capital letters. Using full stops and commas at appropriate times. Learning to spell.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
A Running Commentary
Here I am: in bed, listening to Karnivool, watching my puppy lick her feet and pant heavily.
Don't worry, here comes Regina Spektor. My friend tells me his friend fancies Regina Spektor, as does he...I'm about to google her. He tells me she has magnificent breasts, just like Meg White. She's the guy from The White Stripes broken drum machine - buuuurn. "I hear in my mind / all of these voices / I hear in my mind / all of these words"... etc. Here we go, Google search in process. Fair call boys, they're some impressive tits.
The Fratellis - Cuntry Boys and City Girls. How aptly titled, poetry in motion. I'm sipping my tea and I want to flick forward on my 'not an iPod' iriver. I'm going to do it.
Oooh, Girls on Film - Duran Duran. Flick again, not in the mood for ridiculous
The Darkness. God I'm lame. Try again.
The Ramones - Blitzkrieg Bop. Respectable, but i'm not feeling it. I often pass up The Ramones because it doesn't sit well as everyday music for me...what a load of wank...
Fiddycent. Totes! I'm so one of the cool kids. CANDY SHOP! i love a thinly veiled metaphor. This song is the ultimate in slut dancing. I'm well aware that I'm being objectified, or laughed at as the whale that's shaking her fat arse, but can't help but pull out some pole dancing style slut macarena when it's on.
Flick, flick, flick, flick. I like some really embarassing music. Case in point:
'OOOh, isn't this, exactly where you'd like me... praying for loooove in a lap dance".... PANIC! at the disco. I like them better with the exclamation mark.
Muse - Apocalypse Please. My friend is involved with Matt Belamy. It's true. She followed the band around the countryside. She's awesome. As am I; by association.
Ahahahha. The Decemberists. Sea shanties. Gold. Such fascinating lyrics, with incredibly emotive music: everything is just so vivid. I think it is anyway. I struggle with having any conviction. I'm not sure whether it's really self doubt or lack of a willingness to argue. Tricky, if only I had money to have someone shrink my head. The pooch is asleep now. Check her out. Chest goes up, chest goes down, chest goes up, chest goes down - so much faster than a persons does. "So be kind to your mother."
NEXT SONG. The Mint Chicks - Ammie. They're wonderful, but I'm flicking.
Winner. This has become a song I never flick past. In fact, it often gets played twice. Just for the lyric "suede denim secret police". I just discovered that there's a band by that name. Should have figured that. I wonder if they're any good. I'd be a punk, but i'm too poorly informed and I don't have the time or inclination to be otherwise. Plus, I like trashy pop much.
Case closed - Chest by Operator Puh-lease. Cracking with often-nonsensical lyrics and a blistering pace, it's pretty much impossible not to dance. I've been in a pub with a friend and I swear we almost got kicked out coz we took up the vast majority of the d.floor yelling out a bit of one of their songs. Damned if I can remember which bit. The memory is pretty clear apart from that. Surprising, my nights on the sauce aren't often recollectable. One of the singles...Just a Song about Ping Pong? Probably. Cheater! Liar! that bit...I think.
You Owe Me an IOU as performed by Hot Hot Heat. I've decided that Hot Hot Heat are bitches. Have you ever listened to some of their lyrics. Horribly cliquey and rude.
Steve and his Conscripts. The Straights of Gibraltar. Fucking get that into you. Imagine it, it's cold spaghetti bol, you've gotta eat it because it's wasteful and dumb if you don't. It's just like it's not untasty, because of the delicious meaty sauce, but the cold pasta is a little much. You'll get similie
The cast of Chicago - the hollywood film version - are now singing We Both Reached for the Gun. A friend of mine and my good self were wasted one night. Singing this song...possibly this song...it could have been Roxy, but same difference essentially. Anyways, we were singing show tunes in a totally drunken way...and then this guy said something to me. I assumed it was demeaning, because that's how high my self esteem is. However, it wasn't until after I punched him in that nads that my friend informed me that he was just being sociable. For this I am not sorry. Luckily for me, turns out he's a knob anyway. Perhaps he got that way from being socked in the testes in his first week of uni, but who really cares. Kid's an arsehole and I'd wager that he was like that before I touched him.
done and done
Don't worry, here comes Regina Spektor. My friend tells me his friend fancies Regina Spektor, as does he...I'm about to google her. He tells me she has magnificent breasts, just like Meg White. She's the guy from The White Stripes broken drum machine - buuuurn. "I hear in my mind / all of these voices / I hear in my mind / all of these words"... etc. Here we go, Google search in process. Fair call boys, they're some impressive tits.
The Fratellis - Cuntry Boys and City Girls. How aptly titled, poetry in motion. I'm sipping my tea and I want to flick forward on my 'not an iPod' iriver. I'm going to do it.
Oooh, Girls on Film - Duran Duran. Flick again, not in the mood for ridiculous
The Darkness. God I'm lame. Try again.
The Ramones - Blitzkrieg Bop. Respectable, but i'm not feeling it. I often pass up The Ramones because it doesn't sit well as everyday music for me...what a load of wank...
Fiddycent. Totes! I'm so one of the cool kids. CANDY SHOP! i love a thinly veiled metaphor. This song is the ultimate in slut dancing. I'm well aware that I'm being objectified, or laughed at as the whale that's shaking her fat arse, but can't help but pull out some pole dancing style slut macarena when it's on.
Flick, flick, flick, flick. I like some really embarassing music. Case in point:
'OOOh, isn't this, exactly where you'd like me... praying for loooove in a lap dance".... PANIC! at the disco. I like them better with the exclamation mark.
Muse - Apocalypse Please. My friend is involved with Matt Belamy. It's true. She followed the band around the countryside. She's awesome. As am I; by association.
Ahahahha. The Decemberists. Sea shanties. Gold. Such fascinating lyrics, with incredibly emotive music: everything is just so vivid. I think it is anyway. I struggle with having any conviction. I'm not sure whether it's really self doubt or lack of a willingness to argue. Tricky, if only I had money to have someone shrink my head. The pooch is asleep now. Check her out. Chest goes up, chest goes down, chest goes up, chest goes down - so much faster than a persons does. "So be kind to your mother."
NEXT SONG. The Mint Chicks - Ammie. They're wonderful, but I'm flicking.
Winner. This has become a song I never flick past. In fact, it often gets played twice. Just for the lyric "suede denim secret police". I just discovered that there's a band by that name. Should have figured that. I wonder if they're any good. I'd be a punk, but i'm too poorly informed and I don't have the time or inclination to be otherwise. Plus, I like trashy pop much.
Case closed - Chest by Operator Puh-lease. Cracking with often-nonsensical lyrics and a blistering pace, it's pretty much impossible not to dance. I've been in a pub with a friend and I swear we almost got kicked out coz we took up the vast majority of the d.floor yelling out a bit of one of their songs. Damned if I can remember which bit. The memory is pretty clear apart from that. Surprising, my nights on the sauce aren't often recollectable. One of the singles...Just a Song about Ping Pong? Probably. Cheater! Liar! that bit...I think.
You Owe Me an IOU as performed by Hot Hot Heat. I've decided that Hot Hot Heat are bitches. Have you ever listened to some of their lyrics. Horribly cliquey and rude.
Steve and his Conscripts. The Straights of Gibraltar. Fucking get that into you. Imagine it, it's cold spaghetti bol, you've gotta eat it because it's wasteful and dumb if you don't. It's just like it's not untasty, because of the delicious meaty sauce, but the cold pasta is a little much. You'll get similie
The cast of Chicago - the hollywood film version - are now singing We Both Reached for the Gun. A friend of mine and my good self were wasted one night. Singing this song...possibly this song...it could have been Roxy, but same difference essentially. Anyways, we were singing show tunes in a totally drunken way...and then this guy said something to me. I assumed it was demeaning, because that's how high my self esteem is. However, it wasn't until after I punched him in that nads that my friend informed me that he was just being sociable. For this I am not sorry. Luckily for me, turns out he's a knob anyway. Perhaps he got that way from being socked in the testes in his first week of uni, but who really cares. Kid's an arsehole and I'd wager that he was like that before I touched him.
done and done
Sunday, May 18, 2008
listening to the radio
I'm listening to the radio this evening. Instead of doing work.
I do a lot of things instead of work.
At the moment I'm just taking some time for myself while my dickhead flatmates are out of the house. I hate them. They're so loud and obnoxious. It's like living with five year olds that like sex and metal. I hate them. They're horrendous, real little turds.
All of my cds are at my friends house. I miss them. I shall get them on Tuesday perhaps. That means more public transport though. God damn. Stupid trains. If it were a straight trip to her place from my train station then that'd be ok, but no, I have to get off the train and get onto another one. So painful.
In other news, I had a date the other day. OMG. I know right, crazy. Now I've just gotta wait and see if he calls. I hate the waiting. I hope he calls. Oh dear. Not to worry, if he doesn't I'll just placate myself and cry a little into a big glass of goon.
Sigh.
I do a lot of things instead of work.
At the moment I'm just taking some time for myself while my dickhead flatmates are out of the house. I hate them. They're so loud and obnoxious. It's like living with five year olds that like sex and metal. I hate them. They're horrendous, real little turds.
All of my cds are at my friends house. I miss them. I shall get them on Tuesday perhaps. That means more public transport though. God damn. Stupid trains. If it were a straight trip to her place from my train station then that'd be ok, but no, I have to get off the train and get onto another one. So painful.
In other news, I had a date the other day. OMG. I know right, crazy. Now I've just gotta wait and see if he calls. I hate the waiting. I hope he calls. Oh dear. Not to worry, if he doesn't I'll just placate myself and cry a little into a big glass of goon.
Sigh.
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