Electric Word Life It Means 4 Ever & That's A Mighty Long Time

This what I be feelin' for my homegirls:

And if I were a homme:

Tarantino at the Tiki

There was a Quentin Tarantino party in Perth last night. The 5678's were hit on by a couple of Crazy 88's. Pai Mei, Oren Ishii, and Gogo Yubari got a little drunk. Elle Driver served drinks and swore at the ATM machine. A post-overdose Mia Wallace ended up on The Bride's couch. Tarantino himself was seen begging for drugs at a nearby gay bar.

(Apparently. I wasn't actually there, but my overbearing friend forced me through threats and blackmail to blog this non-event. Ezekiel 25:17)

Fast Forward Through Fashion

Despite my snails-pace broadband connection, a recent favourite pastime of mine after a wearying days work and one-hour train ride, is trawling through the wonder that is YouTube. My god! I really can't express my gratitude toward the genius of Chad Hurley and Steve Chen enough for creating a platform for so much time-wasting bullshit. Night after night I can stay up past my bed time cringing at the ostentatious scene-stealing antics of Prince beside fellow coloured-musical-prodigy contemporaries Michael Jackson and James Brown, while "ROFLMFAO" at Mr T's 80's-era fashion tips over a booming synth-hip hop soundtrack. The nature of this site, in its allowal of personal expressive freedom (to a certain extent. I'd actually like to see more obscenity. You know, more tits, some hardcore cursing, a bit of anal sex.), permits a touchingly strong human element, whereby a particularly eloquent woman offers an informed opinion in her Fat Rant, or quality glimpses of the formerly esoteric realm of high-culture, as covered by NY Times. There are plenty of fashion-related clips available, namely segments of catwalk shows, however I recently discovered a highly entertaining and unusual clip tracing the history of fashion in under 5 minutes:



Originally a sequence from a 1986 Mode en France documentary, with a stunning soundtrack by Serge Gainsbourg, it is unfortunately narrated almost entirely in French, however, imagine my delight when I realised it was posted by Susie Bubble, of Style Bubble fame! I'm a bit of a fan of hers, really.

Some Ice Cubes Would Be Ideal

In an attempt to glorify an Australian winter through comparison, I was dredging up the memory of the oppressive humidity which nearly pinned me down and choked me beyond consciousness in an aisle of the Glebe Markets last month. I am of the opinion that while fashion is heavily influenced by politics and the prevailing cultural zeitgeist, the wearing of said fashions is moreso directly controlled by Nature and her seemingly endless mood swings. It is extremely difficult to flip through flimsy racks of stained 90's cycling pants and loud, padded swimwear in search of a glorious piece which is inevitably marked 600% above the price it was procured for in either stifling heat or an avalanche of rain - which were the environments under which I experienced the Glebe Markets on both occasions I've been there. It is equally unheard of to wear a miniskirt and Repettos during a 4-hour Western equivalent of a Monsoon, or high-waist jeans with piles of necklaces in an outdoor sauna - unless, ofcourse, you neglected to consider weather possibilities, and you are Eunice. In my disgruntled state, however, I spotted two particularly stylish (and might I gush unself-consciously trendy) personalities, who were clearly fixtures on the "Glebe Markets scene" and, for me, were the epitome of Australian fashion. Moreover, the uniform would appear to transcend any temperamental Sydney weather condition with enviable panache, if you'll excuse how lame I am for mentioning it.

Effectively Returned, Albeit Somewhat Displaced.

Freshly adorned with several inches of extra hair and a full cup size larger in the chest (the former belonging to an anonymous donor and fixed to my crown by a muscular transvestite, the latter quite unexpected and entirely authentic, just to reassure you), I return from my month-long vacation to The Land Of Smiles And Inexpensive Contraband Accessories, Thailand. I return, ofcourse, to a sparse guest room next to my mother's kitchen (to quote The Simpson's Principal Skinner, "My mother lives with me."), in a city cold and unforgivably alienating, of which I've often previously visited but have only inhabited for a mere two months before toting an empty suitcase to the smoggy climate and grimy streets of South-East Asia.

I return, now, with enviable memories and inexpressibly broadened vision. But like an unmedicated bipolar patient, with my felicity and excess comes, lurking in the juices of insufficiently heated aeroplane food, gloom, disenchantment and a dazzlingly vacant bank account. I've become trapped between the stark plotted streets and their towering, glassy office buildings, within layers of tenement walls, a prison of brick, cement and framed unrealities, under swathes of starched cotton, knitted wool and goose-bumped skin. A utilities bill lies stiff and despised on the kitchen table, a customs officer probes a gloved hand into the lining of my suitcase, a bus driver barks an answer in perfect unsmiling English. As I smother the embers of my cigarette beneath the glare of a disapproving waiter and pay for a mind-bogglingly overpriced coffee, I try to convince myself that this is my home. Its absurdities and charms have not taken root in my life, yet, and its image is vague and blurry in the unfinished painting of my future, but I have given myself no other choice but to inhale its breath and follow its undulations, at times hesitant but always steadfast amid the miasma of exorbitant price tags and no-smoking signs.

Fowl Play Friday

Fowl Play Friday at the YU, Potts Point. Pretentious deejays, a revolting fashion show, and swarms of street fashion photographers documenting sleazy Sydney nightlife. I was unlucky enough to recieve a quantity of alcoholic beverages free of charge, and was consequently far too inebriated to take many photographs.

But please, take a closer look at the wallpaper:

Rock Out With Your Cock Out

More pornographic advertising! Recently a lucky Runway Reporter was accosted with 15 large-scale dickheads wearing flashy 70's and 80's inspired sunnies at the launch of Ksubi's new Eyewear range. To quote the spluttering sheila unsure of where to look:

"Ksubi's latest fashion show pushes the boundaries as they take their sunglasses
where the sun don't shine."

Said shades were displayed proudly upon flaccid penises, whose pubic hairs were styled to resemble infamous 'dos of the famous and fabulous, and testicles were charmingly given faux mouths to add homosapien character. The image above refers directly to David Hasslehoff, and was taken from Gool, who is apparently in possession of a calendar featuring these shots, and will scan each month's photograph for your viewing pleasure.

RIP SpeedTouch Modem I

The wind was ruthless, the trees quivered violently, wooden talons scratching at the bruised sky. A flash of murderous blue light washed over every shadow and shape for a brief moment, then the angry rumble of a thousand gods roared through suburbia's rows of echoing boxes, alighting atoms, molecules and volts to vibrant electric heights. I lay asleep, unaware of the violence around me, the wet earth clinging to helpless roots, my idling modem weeping silently with fear and despondence. I awoke to a small box, breathless, cold, feeble red light blinking lifelessly, and I realise I had lost a dear friend. I never acknowleged him, I used him mercilessly and left him to fight the wrath of nature, electricity and physics alone, unarmed.

It is easier to say he died of natural causes, my SpeedTouch Modem I, rather than blame Mother Nature, that squat, feisty bitch, or even to consider that it may have been suicide - one can never be sure of such things. But the following days passed as a vacuous and meaningless miasma as I struggled with my grief at such a tremendous loss. I thought of my inaccessible Outlook Express inbox rapidly filling uncontrollably with daily notes and newsletters, of my neglected Myspace profile, and I thought of you, dear readers, suffering from a listless want of "witty cultural dissections", amusing jibes and vile cuss-words illustrating the madness of our existence.

But since the joyous arrival of SpeedTouch Modem I's replacement, SpeedTouch Modem II, in a grinning, shorts-and-knee-socks attired postman's arms on a bright glitter-tinged morning, I have once again plunged myself into the glorious world of electronic ecstacy. I have returned to appease you, dear readers, and to re-educate the educated with my priceless idiocy and bullshit. Rejoice, for I am back.

Image: The Daily Siege