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

Muse: Audrey Horne

You may not recognise this Monday's Muse unless you were of Mentally Independent Age during the early 90's, or a hard-core David Lynch groupie. Twin Peaks was a deliciously odd, surreal television series aired during my MTV-and-Disney-cartoons phase, directed by the genius David Lynch, which I've only recently discovered with much relish and enthusiasm. It followed the story of the eccentric Agent Cooper investigating the murder of high-school darling with a dark side, Laura Palmer. This basic plotline is only a platform for convoluted, nightmarish visions from Lynch's amazing imagination, and one cannot help but become attached to the seemingly normal, but often disconcertingly twisted characters, alongside the unforgettable images of the Red Room, with its backwards-talking dwarf, the tortured one-armed man, the 8-foot-tall tuxedoed giant, Laura's violently hysterical father, the insane forest woman and her all-seeing log, and the frightening, blood-smeared Bob.

Our concern here, however, is the innocent yet daring femme fatale, Audrey Horne, played by Sherilyn Fenn. She wears 50's skirts and red ballet flats, with carefully coiffed dark hair, set against thick, arched brows above a small, perfectly placed beauty spot. She flirts masterfully with the gallantly unresponsive Agent Cooper, while privately delving into the sordid undergrowth of small town Twin Peaks' mysteries. She even has her own song, a dreamy 'Audrey's Dance' by Angelo Badalamenti, and I bet that scene where she applies for a seedy escort job by twisting a cherry stalk into a knot in her mouth had adolescent boys the world over instantly creaming their pants.

Aussie Access

Perhaps it is because I happen to live here and share the tastes and sensibilities of my nation, but I sincerely believe Australia has some of the best fashion in the world. Granted most of it is not exactly sartorial excellence or as forward-thinking in the way of Balenciaga or Hussein Chalayan as I would like, but it has the perfect amount of whimsy and kitsch, coupled with street-credible individuality to make some items particularly covetable. Australian fashion has a long way to go yet, what with the country being so young the paint has barely dried on the walls, but what I've seen so far of Aussie talent is doubtlessly impressive.

So imagine my delight when I stumbled across an online shop stocked exclusively with Australian catwalk designers. Ozdesigner.com has in its possession a collection of Zimmerman, Shakuhachi, Karen Walker, Camilla and Marc, and Alice McCall threads, among others, professionally photographed, packed, priced and ready to ship to your chosen international destination. Considering Australia's reasonably strong but comparatively inferior exchange, if you so happen to deal in Euros or Pounds then you are bound to discover an unbelievable bargain.

I know what you're thinking: "But what can we get for you, Eunice?". Well, although I've never given a shit about Christmas, I certainly wouldn't mind a bit if you were overcome with a sudden compelling rush of Christmas spirit and bought me the Shakuhachi black and white checkered pinafore pictured above, at a mere $220. (Be sure to consult among yourselves as I would rather not be in possession of 56 identical items of clothing). Thanks, guys!

Surrey Hills Markets, Ksubi (with a K) Modular

Well, my 2Threads newsletters are starting to impress me. Not only is the fashion becoming more interesting, but for two weeks in a row now, I have found photographs of people I know through acquaintances. It's all very exciting for this hermetic girl!

So here is some Aussie street fashion for you fuckers. I hope 2Threads doesn't sue me for these posts - what are the laws regarding such things?

Surrey Hills Markets

1st and 2nd pictures are Russell and Mariam, respectively.

Ksubi Modular Xmas Bash Party

And that's Ksubi with a K. My friend Stephanie has been eagerly informing everyone we encounter that Tsubi emerged out of a court case against some Tsubo wankers with a name change, and so any of ye olde "Tsubi with a T" threads will be worth alot in future - hooray for modern collector's items!

The Kubrick Look

That heavy-browed glare of insanity.

Alex from A Clockwork Orange, Jack Torrence from The Shining, Private Pyle from Full Metal Jacket,

and Stanley Kubrick himself.

(Way to scare to shit out of me, Stanley)

Soirée fétichiste à la Loco à Paris

Do you believe this? There recently was a fetish party in Paris, where ladies wore leather underwear, dwarves got their hair pulled by dominatrix sluts, half-naked submissives had a good old chat in their cages, and a hot bitch in vinyl platforms sipped her cocktail while a writhing, nipple-clamped man lay under her feet.

This kind of event is really beyond my wildest dreams. Who on earth wants to attend countless boring backyard barbeques, beer in hand and gesticulating, cheaply-clothed mall rat in another, when there are sado-masochist orgies to feast your eyes with?

In all seriousness, I'm not really an S&M kind of girl, but if anybody happens to hold an Eyes Wide Shut-esque party in the near future, and are in need of a skinny blonde Asian chick to decorate their guest list, then give me a call. Fo shiz.

Chic Geek

Trendy lady and her footwear photographed by Yvan

Socks with sandals are cool now, you know.

Don't tell me you don't like it.

Azminag Dsocivrey

It's remarkable what MySpace chain mail bulletins can uncover:

I Cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae.

The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!

The last point made by the author regarding the importance of spelling made me slightly annoyed. It seems their remark was made to be kind and excuse those who are atrocious spellers or unable to read, but for some odd reason seemed incorrect and awkward. So I considered it, and realised that the human mind always skips over details in all things, such as those optic illusory illustrations that prove our brains are quite inventive in order to fill in visual gaps. Despite the fact that I become slightly disconcerted when encountered with incorrect usages of "their", "there" and "they're", among other extremely irksome errors, the reason we can all read quickly is because words are skimmed over, and a 'big picture' is formed of everything infront of us. However, those who can't read evidently have issues in learning this skill naturally, and tend to dwell on the symbols and literal formations, causing anguish and confusion, while those who spell like disabled animals clearly pay no heed to details (and are possibly even more aural learners rather than visual). I believe this is almost fascinating enough to research with more depth, but unfortunately I couldn't be bothered. I would be absolutely ecstatic to hear your thoughtful opinions, though, dear readers.

Eidecan & Heineken

Regular readers and social acquaintances will be aware of my recent awakening from a dull and mould-scented hibernation. It comes as no surprise then, that an otherwise contrived gathering of adolescent metal/punk bands competing for two-or-three highschool groupies infront of a sweaty, rigid audience proved wonderful entertainment for my usually lacklustre Saturdays. Ofcourse there was a little assistance (okay, alot) from numerous varieties of beverages and chemicals consumed from 11am until 4am the next morning, but despite only managing to witness two of the ten-and-some-fucking-number of bands, I had a rollicking good time and extended my inebriated self to capture some photographic evidence of my townfolk's trashy behaviour for your amusement.

Behold, the Toowoomba Eidecan Youth Festival!

Le Bands

Twist Oliver, Twist! , fronted by my fashionable friend Dave, the musical genius pictured blurrily above. I hate to get all salivating-fan on you, but they are going places and worth your attention if you happen to appreciate a quality intermix of electro-pop/rock, with moody vocals and catchy, repetitive beats that quiver against your sternum and drive your soul full-speed through busy red-light intersections.

Flamingo Crash failed to impress me, but perhaps that was due to their reputation of obnoxious backstage antics and my urgent need of a refuel, if you get my less-than-subtle drift. The keyboard player donned the ubiquitous black pencil skirt/pinafore with a rather covetable Campbells soup t-shirt, while the lead singer reminded me strongly of an early Jim Morrison. His moves were hot, my friends.

Le People

Le Toilet Humour