A gift for music enthusiasts

Somewhere between craving cinnamon donuts, psyching myself up for my last ever academic semester and dealing with things slightly beyond the healthy limits of my emotional quota, I turned twenty.

Here is where I say 'thank you' to anyone who contributed to the fruitfulness of my day through sms / youtube / facebook / twitter / dailybooth comments, actual gropes and telekinetic energy. I felt the vibes, thank you.

Since I regrettably cannot personally hug or affectionately pat any of your heads, I thought the next best thing would be to compile and illegally distribute a mixtape of sorts, whereby you could:
a) enjoy what my ears (and nostalgic recollection) enjoy
b) subsequently broaden the horizons of your music favourites, or
c) decisively attack me for everything I stand for, starting with my music taste

Then I remembered that legal run-ins regarding intellectual property and copyright are actually severely intimidating, and are things with which I don't want to be involved.

In conclusion, I have not uploaded and will not freely distribute a collection of songs.
I have, however, still compiled a set of twenty songs in youtube form - with one song from every year I've been alive. Hope you enjoy; do let me know if you've decided to fall in love with any of my picks (:

1989 - Personal Jesus : Depeche Mode
1990 - Roam : B52s
1991 - Jeremy : Pearl Jam
1992 - Date Rape : Sublime
1993 - Mr. Wendal : Arrested Development
1994 - Cornflake Girl : Tori Amos
1995 - Waterfalls : TLC
1996 - Lady Picture Show : Stone Temple Pilots
1997 - Suddenly Strange : Bic Runga
1998 - Teardrop : Massive Attack
1999 - Paper Bag : Fiona Apple
2000 - Sparks : Coldplay
2001 - Love Affair : Regina Spektor
2002 - Innervision : System of a Down
2003 - Collide : Rachael Yamagata
2004 - Too Drunk To F*ck : Nouvelle Vague
2005 - Virginia Moon : Foo Fighters
2006 - Mushaboom : Feist
2007 - Nude : Radiohead
2008 - Hiphopopotamus Vs. Rhymenoceros : Flight of the Conchords
2009 - R U Kidding Me : Kate Miller-Heidke

The usual, unstimulating trivial commentary will resume in the following blog posts. I leave you with a teaser of sorts, by the clubbing snaparazzi. Yeah, this mug totally made it to one of those party photo websites, ha. Clearly my life is much closer to fulfillment!


i left the womb, goodnight

i got snubbed by the man of my dreams

I should begin by noting that the title of this entry is vastly more interesting than the story itself. I will now proceed. So about two nights ago, this guy I know from a class at uni played a cameo role in my dreams. I have exercised all of about sixty words to him from when he asked for computer help, his features never caused a stir in my loins or heart, and I wouldn't even go so far as to call us acquaintances. Despite this and for whatever inexplicable reason, he made an appearance in my dreams.

Lo and behold, while accompanying my mother to an appointment in King's Cross, (yes, it's exactly what you're thinking... if what you're thinking involves questionable circumstances) who should walk by but mr-in-my-dreams himself! I had the riveting compulsion to grab him by my ankles and yell, "fate! we are bound by fate!"

Thankfully, nothing of that ridiculous extent transpired, and the scenario was grossly anticlimactic. He just walked on by like the lyrics to Burt Bacharach's song aptly titled 'Walk On By', and he didn't acknowledge me! I like to dismiss the idea that he totally just didn't see me, considering I was way out of his peripheral vision, but the story is much more enthralling if I pretend that it was an act of defiance to his reciprocated burning lust.

But then my mother bought me a burrito, and all was well. God, I'm such an easy bribe. I jump at the chance to accompany her to appointments, clean dog shit, go for routine lobotomies... all for the promise of food.

(Image stolen from the Guzman y Gomez website. Does product placement get me free burritos? Because I will totally be a repeat customerrr...)

And totally off topic, but whatever, Min. D-Radcliffe is totally a babe.

Guys, I can't thank you enough for reading my blog and reacting to what I say. I wish you could know how incredibly grateful I am for the fact that I have such quality people following and responding to my words. Thank you for such phenomenal comments in the last entry. At risk of sounding any more like a big sap, I throw in the word "hernia" to break the monotony.


unworthy blogger

So, after just having read Hayley's last post, I feel like an unworthy blogger. I blog about my misadventures and the things I'm obscenely passionate about, which invariably are creative self-expression and fat thighs (more appropriately, the eternal pursuit to remove them from my life). As far as saving the world goes though, what am I doing? I'm vaguely conscious about recycling and I volunteered for a summer at the YMCA as a soft-spoken twelve year old. These token graces are as far as I go in terms of being an environmentalist / humanitarian / good samaritan / relevant human.

I see people on the streets. I read about those people suffering from poverty or carnage. I know that so much stuff of real substance occurs that don't even register on my personal radar of importance. All I can do is briefly feel empathetic and genuinely sorry for people in these sort of circumstances, but I don't do more than that. I haven't gone to a camp for abused children, made a positive impression, and subsequently enriched someone's life for a week. At this point in my life, I can't willingly say that I would consider adopting, much less consider the prospect of having my own offspring. Lots of admiration, Hayls. (Seriously, if you haven't read Hayley's blog yet right now, do so.)

I dunno. I guess I'm just sad that wanting change is not synonymous with actual change. I don't know if I'll be forever afflicted with apathy; I hope not. It's not the thought that counts after all. As they say, the dead are still dead.

There's a lot I don't write about and put up in the public domain. I self-censor a lot of what goes on in my personal life (I know, hard to believe, right?). I like to write about lighthearted things, and if I do touch on something a little more poignant, I'll stay vague. I'm sorry that this post deviated from the structure, but at the same time I addressed something that needed to be addressed. But my penchant for the lighthearted means that I will forever be an unworthy blogger with no real address to the relevant things of today's society. Hate it when I'm being a confused downer? YEAH, YOU AND ME BOTH!

Back to my typical non-riveting, regular musings. I know this totally defeats the aforesaid paragraphs, but eh. Like I said, I like to chronicle the lighthearted things.

So I went to dinner and The Butterfly Effect gig last night, and went snap-happy. In the following images, you will see my dinner also known as Pad Thai Prawn, the faces of Nerida, Rose, Crystal and myself, and Rose's conceptual artwork more aptly called 'Rice on a table'.

This is the view from where we were. That's right, those two heads you see are made of finite human flesh.

I didn't bring my zoom lens, so no close-ups of faces mid money-note, no heaving drummer pecs and the like. I should note that I learned of the art form of timing precision since I had to time my 'clicks' in the split-seconds when the two side-bobbing heads in front of me bobbed out of my frame. I also may or may not have stolen Zab's watermark style.

Now please make sense of the following two pictures, as the implication creeps me the truck out. Disregard the awkward poses; working with the allotted seconds of self-timer in the wee hours of the morning is not my strong suit. I remember having such a hard time keeping my eyes open. I attributed it to dry contacts. If you look at these, my face is considerably fuzzy. WHAT THE TRUCK. Is that a ghost sitting on my face?! HALP.


So hi. The looney above has wet hair. And seems not to mind!

I have approximately ten minutes til Nerida picks me up & we scurry off to watch a gig. TEN MINUTES, I say. So just a forewarning that I will hit 'submit' when I hear the doorbell, regardless of any conjunctions still requiring nouns, regardless of fragmented sentences, and regardless of general grammatical ineptitude!

I started typing up a blog last night, a Friday night, in which I urged you not to be envious of my supremely cool social standing after I divulged where I spent my Friday night. I, of unparalleled social relevance, spent my Friday night... at the gym. Hahahaha, don't judge me. I got enough judging from Daniel who rang during my heaving and grunting, and was happy to hear that I was out judging from the background noise. I told him I was at le gym and he retracted his happiness :(


BBQ Nicken Salad

I may or may not have been dreaming about above salad from California Pizza Kitchen, which regretfully is not an establishment in Australia. WOE!

So I took matters into my own grubby, unwashed hands, and made a cheap knock-off. What my salad lacked in trademark black beans, jicana, cilantro, basil, crispy corn tortilla strips, monterey jack cheese and herb ranch dressing, it made up for in human flesh and subsequent ailments.

I present you, The BBQ Nicken Salad, eh eh eh:

Ahahaha, I think I have effortlessly surpassed the weirdness quota for the evening. Just as well, my legs are still shaking from this evening's pump class (FILTHY LUNGES TRACK!) and I ought to go kick a bucket. Or something. Anything besides more ridiculous words!

Night folks,

Boiled pork

"HI! My eye-patch is like the modern day man - no strings attached!"

Haaaa oh dear, my jokes get progressively worse by day. I apologise. I actually opened up this sacred bloggy-window last night to pour forth some musings, but I was then side-tracked by something exponentially cooler, and by that I mean a library book about Adobe Flash. And then I feel asleep. I would appreciate it if you didn't make fun of my leisure reading choices, thank you.

GUUUYS, I've been tender all weekend like some well-boiled pork. Regretfully, I don't think I'm edible. No, but really, muscular tenderness is such a welcome addition to the vessel that is me. For the past three weeks, I've upped my bodypump classes from once (possibly twice) a week to a solid thrice. That, and I've also been increasing my weights load by about a third. I feel stronger, but damnit, I wan't results in the form of very-intimidating-guns nownownow!

Oh, speaking of gym-related things, yesterday I totally got hit on by a man a little older than in my prefered demographic. I am still deliberating about whether he was just being polite. "Do you train here often?" he said. "Yes," I replied with the casual air of a dustpan. "Oh," he continued, "I just haven't seen you around". "Mm, probably because I usually come in the mornings," I replied. At which he turned to his friend and exclaimed, "Pete, I told you we should go in the mornings. Look at the girls we miss out on."

It's instances like this where I wish my wit wasn't as ridiculous as chilli-flavoured toothpaste. Instead of saying something remotely amusing like, "Nah, it's just cranky soccermums then, the schoolgirls get here in the afternoon!" I instead said...something. Yeah, evidently so amusing, I can't even recall what I said. I wish I had wit! I wish I had finesse! I wish I didn't get such a kick out of eating Nutella straight from the jar!

Ooh, and I received one of my final assessments back in the mail. This should have been a 3,500 word essay, as I had intended for the greater part of the semester. With one week to go, I decided, "So what if I've already done the research and typed up the relevant notes, I want to make a project instead!" (We had the option to do a creative interpretation, and despite wanting creativity over conventionality, I thought I wouldn't have time and I didn't need the extra stress). Well, desire prevailed at the last minute, mind you - with two other major final assessments also due that week, and I persisted in making a video. I GOT A FREAKING HIGH DISTINCTION. Um... I think the extra stress was worth it. The moral of the story is that you should follow every desire except for the desire to swallow daggers or the desire to pursue Charles Manson because necrophilia isn't a very healthy pastime.

And today I visited Tasmanian cliffs the only way cheaters know how - photoshop, baby. Scenery is two images from Dad's archives.

(Click to view larger on flickr.)

Night, darlings