Google in Cahoots with Safety Town

Google Maps caught this dude eating shit on his bike, right here in Oz. Let's all take a moment to laugh at him and applaud Big Brother Google for this morning's entertainment!

Thanks to the f for the heads-up

Spliffs, Krums and Pies

I've got a few small observations for you guys, none of which warrant a whole post.

The first thing is, you guys need to get with 420. It's not that hard. 420 (four-twenty) means marijuana celebration happy times. That means that if I happen to glance at the clock one afternoon and declare "4:20 doods!" in Ultimate Surfer voice then you should understand that I am excited about the prospect of someone having weed on them to share with me.

But the thing is with you guys, this explanation is never enough for you. You have to know why it's called 4-20. And if it has anything to do with Four and Twenty Pies (no) and if it's a reference to Cheech and Chong (also no). The point is, you're missing the point. Who cares what it's called. It's time to hit the bong.

The 20th of April is a special day for the world, worth celebrating and pondering: Earth Day. The anniversary of the Bay of Pigs. The beginning of the French Revolution. And a day during which millions spark doobs. It's communal spirit braaahh.

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Yesterday whilst celebrating I went to the grocery store and bought these breadcrumbs, both because the name was so ridiculously Aussie--Krummies--and because I thought the packaging was old school and adorable. But now that I've had a look around the internets I've decided I must have bought a box of Krummies that had been sitting around the store since the last time they branded.

Krummies reminded me of a couple other brand names that make me laugh. One is Kumfs. It's a brand of ugly shoes from New Zealand. I also like the v. popular ice cream "Golden Gay Time". The other one is this store that has American Apparel-like clothing called Cotton On, which (I think) is an Australian expression for catching on to something. But every time I pass it I think,
"Cotton On Garth!"
"Cotton On Wayne."


* * *

I art directed a photo shoot last week out at a new housing development we like to call Satanic Ridge. Once we compiled a list of names we'd have chosen for a new subdivision, and it included such gems as "Crystal's Hymen" and "Guiche Creek." I'll have to dig up the list for you guys. But anyway, while we were at the shoot, one of the kids, who was ten, asked me which footy team I support.

"Collingwood," I said to him.

He squinted his eyes and hissed, "damn you" before walking off. !!! I lamely called after him, "well which team do you like?" He didn't even turn around, just called out "Carlton" and rejected me for the rest of the afternoon.

Heading to the Hills

I've been feeling antsy lately about the fact that I live in Australia yet have no idea what Australia is about. I don't leave Melbourne. That's partly because nature is some nasty shit and also because part of me is afraid of Australia. Sharks eat people here.

But lately I've been thinking, at some point I'm going to be stuck in some gray, shitty-ass apartment in an inconvenient area of New York and think FUCK MAN, I used to live in Australia! but have no idea what that actually looks like, aside from what I've seen in Wolf Creek and Rogue.




Way to go Tourism Australia.

So anyway, enough of me being a pussy. I've been here a year and a half (next Wednesday, but who's counting?) Time to check out some cultcha.

The first thing we did was go to Sovereign Hill on Easter. It's a recreated gold-mining village in Ballarat, where 1/3 of the world's gold was found during the Victorian gold rush in the 1850s.



Here is a photo of me in the welcome center, recreating real history by stealing the chinaman's gold. I play the role of Whitey.




It was your typical family/tourist destination. We, of course, were stared at like we were circus performers; at one point while standing in line for the underground mine tour, people were staring at Ed's tattoos so blatantly, he offered to do a little jig for them while we all waited. Luckily none of them spoke English so conversation wasn't actually necessary. I'm just kidding. Some of them spoke English, but it sounded like "SHANE STOP HITTING NARELLE!" so I just tuned out.

As with all places like this we got tired and dusty, and since I was intelligently wearing a dress and heels we proceeded to whine to my mother in law until she fed us sandwiches to shut us up. Yes, we're 30 years old.

But here were the things I did like:

1. Oooh! Type! Ye olde printing presses!



2. And, curiously, all the things named after America. I guess the American gold rush was probs going on around the same time but I can't be sure because who can be fucked going to California to find out? I played plenty of Oregon Trail in 8th grade, I don't need no education.

* * *

Another thing I did recently was go to Luna Park, Melbourne's version of Coney Island.


I'd been wanting to go and I was in a shitty mood on Sunday, so I decided to ride my bike there. I figured it's impossible to stay shitty when there are terrified children on rollercoasters to laugh at. Also, I figured going on the old ass rollercoaster is a rite of passage like Coney's Cyclone. But when I got there the coaster wasn't running, so I took a seat, bought a crap coffee and people watched. After a few minutes I started wondering whether being there by myself was bad, so I texted my friend Matt to ask.

ecs to Matt: I'm at Luna Park by myself. Is that weird?

Matt to ecs: That depends if you are on acid...

ecs to Matt: Not on acid but it's interesting people watching. Scared kids' faces are hilarious.

Matt to ecs: Are you scaring children?
Matt to ecs: I like the idea of you frightening children.

ecs to Matt: Okay well let's go with that then. You should see my makeup today. It's disturbing.

Matt to ecs: That is why they are crying. Plus you are stamping on their feet as their parents look the other way.

ecs to Matt: And poking them with needles that are taped to my fingers. Uh oh security guards. Gotta go.

* * *

Tomorrow I head off to explore yet another corner of Australia: Sandy Point, about 2.5 hours outside of Melbourne.

Beach, ocean, house. I'm turning 30 on Saturday. Stay tuned.

Cops, comin' try to snatch my crops.

I spent a good part of last week sitting in my darkened-but-still-hot-as-hell living room, watching a pirated copy of Melbourne mini-series, Underbelly. It's not only pirated but banned from Melbourne TV, by order of the Supreme Court of Victoria. Underbelly documents what came to be called the Gangland Murders in Melbourne between 1998 and 2006, during which time like 34 people were killed in underworld power struggles. Some of the trials are still going on, which is why it's banned from TV here, but I didn't feel bad about watching it because I can't be on a jury here anyway. Also, supreme court? Nothing is safe from public knowledge. It's called wikipedia.

Anyway it's an awesome series and really piqued my interest because of how unsafe it all was. I also learned about how inept the cops are—or at least were—while this was all going down. I thought that was pretty interesting because I remember noticing as soon as I moved here how non-threatening the cops are.

3 signs that you may have lost your authoritative hold on the public:
1. You drive a white station wagon.
2. You wear a blue and white checked baseball cap.
3. You have billy clubs, but no helmets.




If I were a crim and that chick in front tried to arrest me, I'd just punch her in the tit. Also, why are they wearing black leather gloves? Are they breaking in somewhere? Lock their keys in the wagon? Someone get these jacks a stylist.

Okay, I didn't exactly condone Guiliani's technique in New York of putting a cop in fatigues with an assault rifle on every corner in order to stop crime, but (ahem) it worked. Sorry. You should be afraid of cops. Especially if you're thinking about doing something like, I dunno, killing people.

In Underbelly they kept this running line throughout the script about how the cops didn't have the budget to properly surveil these gangsters so they could catch them before they killed more people. Like, honestly, I don't really care about the drugs part. They were ecstasy pills. As tragic as I find flourescent clothing and drum n' bass, E doesn't really destroy lives. It just turns you into a tooth-grinding, bad-dancing, owl-eyed, sleepless, grinning, bro-downing moron for several hours before beating you into submission until you're fetal and can't remember anything about 10th grade. Seriously, the worst it can do is turn you into this:


Killing people is (marginally) worse. But I suppose when you've been a cop in Safety Town, killing sprees catch you off guard. You've been too busy launching a campaign against jaywalking.


I understand not wanting to come off as a bunch of fucking thugs, like a lot of cops are anyway, but there is a spectrum of authoritative figures available. Below, I list my nominees for Melbourne's police academy, Class of 2008!

1. Robert Patrick: either his character in Terminator 2 or the real dude. Either way: tough as nails.



2. The mom from Malcolm in the Middle. You won't mess with this mom. You know you won't because she's already got some psychologically fucked up plan to make you terrified of spoons for the rest of your life.




3. I realize I'm getting into big budget territory, especially with the rising cost of fuel. So another option is just to stick with Australian enforcement, like Hugh Jackman as Wolverine. He's already gone through all the training, he understands bogan slang, and he has sword fingers.




4. The Ghost of Steve Irwin. Ghost + crocodile = "yessir officer". Can you imagine a crime going down when Steve was on the clock? Cops could just throw barricades up around a drug deal and throw some crocodiles in. Those things will do anything for Steve.



If this is all a bit too OTT for the Victorian police, can I make a suggestion? Get some new uniforms. Paint your cars black with big silver gun decals down the side. Put a big ass (useless) spoiler on the back. Dumbasses always think that makes a car go faster. And stop trying to be cyclists. It's not a good look.

Dangerous Girl Goes Back to The D

I think sometimes people attribute my anger management problem to the fact that I'm from Detroit. That makes sense I guess; Detroit's an easy target. You can know nothing about it but still have some cursory understanding that it's a rough place. And it is...but it isn't. In a lot of ways it just got the short end of the stick for like 40 years.

But no, that's not why I'm such a psycho. Besides, to say I grew up in Detroit is like saying you grew up in Compton when you're really from the O.C. Er something. Whatever, L.A. sucks.

In 1967, race riots broke out in Detroit—as they had in a lot of major cities across the United States where there were high populations of blacks and whites living closely together. Detroit got the fuck burnt out of it during the riots and then in subsequent years, when the city was left to rot, because anyone who could, fled to the suburbs. The picture above is of the train station downtown Detroit. As you can see in the following photos, there are no windows left.










I'm not posting these photos to tell you what a bad place Detroit is. But I think sometimes people need to see the power of what can happen to a city's economy because of social breakdowns; because of neglect.

I think people think that they can continue to support their own privileged interests and ignore the larger picture of society. I think people believe that what happens to "other people" in "other places" simply will not ever affect them. Detroit is a victim of such neglect and stupidity and corruption.

If you forget that this is all the result of cumulative badness, though, there's something beautiful and eerie in the urban decay. Imagine the feeling you'd get walking through Melbourne and seeing major buildings, skyscrapers, empty and falling through. If you can separate the sadness, you can really see how people are what gives a building life, and how dead buildings make a city a ghost.

No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn

I came back last week after spending three glorious weeks in the Northern Hemisphere. Holy shit was it awesome. We first stopped in Detroit to see all 5 billion of my family members, which was great. They're funny people. Weirdos, in fact. I also got to give husband a tour of The D: the original Dangerous Town. But I'll write more about that later, because I have to skip to Brooklyn before I expode.

We arrived in NYC after spending a week with my fam and I [figuratively] kissed the ground at LaGuardia baggage claim. Grabbing a cab, we made our way to Elizabeth Street--where our aunt and uncle have an apartment they generously lend to us when we're in town--and after settling in, set off to see the city and find our crazy ass friends.

There were some changes in our 'hood that made me pretty disgruntled--for instance, on the Bowery, a stretch I once avoided in my youth after a certain hour, there is now The Bowery Hotel, a swank poop of a place that was constructed and opened in the space of 13 months. Gross. Looking up, I noticed the Village Voice had an opinion about it too:



There were more things too, like a handful of sky-rise apartments going up on the Lower East Side, (which is now filled with bankers and Australians anyway so whatevs) and a Whole Foods that takes up an entire city block. It was probably built on top of junkie graves so you know some poltergeist shit's bound to go down at some point...

But don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say it was all rough n' shit when I lived there, but when you return to a place you've missed as long as I've missed New York, you get offended when things aren't exactly as you left them. And things weren't. Two close friends moved to separate places in Brooklyn. Other friends have moved away altogether. A few dyed their hair. One even had a baby and moved to Park Slope while I was gone. You guys: some of them stopped smoking weed. (Not the new mom.) (JK.)

But we rallied on. We forced everyone out of their borough burrows despite the cold, and good times ensued. After a few days, I was walking around with the ol' spring in my step, as one does in New York when she doesn't have to go to work or pay exorbitant rent or hate humanity. It was great. And then on New Year's Eve, it got even better. Below, a photo essay with captions.


Our bag o' booze. Contents: Gin, mixers, beer, and Olde English. Participants: ecs, husband, and D-Mak (a stray Aussie we found who needed a party.)


D-Mak and ecs. D-Mak had already had about 11 gin and tonics.


















At left: Rikky, our host and good friend whose reaction upon my entering the party was probably the most welcome I've ever felt: full knee-slide from across the room, arms raised in victory, shouting eeeee ceeeee essssssss!



















Husband Ed and D-Mak. I like to think of this photo as foreshadowing; Ed is gesturing toward the fifth-storey window he will later barf out of. The barf did not land on anyone. (I love the word 'barf'.)















D-Mak and Andy (it's his fifth-storey bedroom window.)















Cokane's future husband and my current husband. For the record, I approve of Tom, if for no other reason than because he bought that Cornholio t-shirt off a bum for 50 cents.















I'm smiling because I may or may not be looking forward to something that is going to be handed to me to put in my mouth and smoked from someone I've never met in my life.















These facial expressions basically sum up the entire evening.



















When you can no longer hold your own booze, a good spouse will help you out.





























Malt liquor and red wine already warring on two sides of my head. I wonder why I barfed?

* * *
None of these photos really do the night any justice--there were also fireworks, a Designated Rage Zone where we moshed to Weezer, and 400 other people having an awesome time in Brooklyn. There's no place like home.

Happy new year to you and yours. More to come.
Love, Dangerous Girl and Ed.

Land of the Rising Pun

I have to admit, I really appreciate the Australians' love for a terrible pun. Which is why I was really excited when I started noticing how many small Australian businesses incorporate puns into their business names. There's something sweet and self-deprecating about it that I can't help but exploit and make fun of.

Hair salons take the cake for the most pun-tastic titles. Today, for example, I'm gettin' my roots did at a place called "Headmasters," which is a one-two punch because it's hair school as well as a salon. Heading Out claims to be winner of Australian Creative Colourists of the year, which makes me think of how my mother politely describes things she thinks are fucking terrible as "creative" or "interesting". Other awesome hair salons are Hair Apparent, Fringe Benefits, Hairhouse (I assume this is playing off 'whorehouse'?) and my own personal fave, Curl Up n' Dye.





There's a certain cheesy innocence about restaurants with punny names—like, you know not to expect greatness but it will probably be entertaining, well-intentioned and slightly annoying, like mildly retarded cousins. Lord of the Fries is the greatest vegetarian hangover food Melbourne has to offer. And I've never been to Wok around the Clock but in my head when creepy '50s Chinese restaurant meets Happy Days, everyone wins. But then it all gets ruined by places like this monstrosity, Feddish, which is a restaurant in Fed Square that is undoubtedly filled with cunts.

There's a bar in Fitzroy called Lambs Go Bar which doesn't translate into American so I guess I don't feel like it counts, and there's Lentil as Anything but I didn't get that one until I found out there's a band called Mental as Anything. Autobarn didn't seem like a pun to me until I heard someone say it out loud and I realized Aussies think Autobarn and the Autobahn are homonyms. Finally, the one that really, really still doesn't make any sense to me is this place Roozervelt's. Um. What?

Anyway, I'll leave you with my favorite two from the mattress category, Old King Coil and my favorite business pun of all time, Back to the Futon. I couldn't make this shit up.