Dangerous Girl in Safety Town

Reservation Chic

2009-03-06T09:56:00.006+11:00

You know who I hate? Teenagers. And while I should say "Australian teenagers" to stay in keeping with the theme of this blog, my dislike of them probably has no geographic boundaries. And to be fair, I didn't like myself as a teenager either, so it's not like I'm just being Old. You just don't see that many kids in New York. It's not a kids' place. In Melbourne, they're everywhere. And for some reason they never have parents.

The main thing I don't like about teenagers is how they look, since I rarely engage with them otherwise — I cross their path while they're loitering in front of Flinders Street Station, or chewing with their mouths open in the Bourke Street Mall. I don't mind the nerdy ones, or even the ones that think they're Goth, because they're probably having a shit time just living if they're wearing a Bullet for My Valentine tee-shirt.

It's the Myer Basement audience; the loud, screechy ones that shop at Supré whom I find the worst. They're the over-confident, pancake makeup-wearing girls and their scaled-up jock-type boy counterparts that cause my ovaries to shrivel. It's not that I think my kid would be like this; it's that I wouldn't want to subject her to this.

I've written about Myer windows before. So this caught my attention the other day. It's a crap picture, but in case you're squinting ... trying to see if ... is that a... Yes. It's a teepee in the display window. With black mannequins wearing tee-shirts with horses and leather tassels and some other 'Native American-inspired' bullshit. Oh, and stereo speakers. And a picnic hamper. And stumps of wood for kneeling. And a tartan blanket. It's so historically adept it blows my mind. And right next door at Supré?

Well.

We couldn't be caught being original, could we?

For those of you who think I might be exaggerating or overreacting to how ridiculous this new trend — which will invariably attract the most vapid of the teenaged sect — imagine the following scenario:

Say you're Australian and you've gone to the States on holiday. Say you're in Chicago. (It's roughly the same size as Melbourne.) You're walking down Michigan Avenue, which is the main shopping strip in the city, and in the window of Macy's you see this:

Yes. It's the same thing.

Kites in the Reservoir: My Day in Darebin

2009-03-04T14:25:00.009+11:00

If the Melbourne CBD is 'like New York' and St Kilda is 'like L.A.', then the City of Darebin is totally like Southeast Detroit. After an epic Sunday trip along the 112 tram line, I arrived at the Darebin Kite Festival, excited at the fact that I actually left the inner suburbs. It's a rare occasion.

Strolling across the grass with my travelling companions, Megan and Marcus, I found myself bemused at the scene.

"So here's where all the brown people are!" my inner monologue exclaimed. Scores of children of all colors ran around, with younger ones wandering glassy-eyed and overwhelmed at the excitement, while older kids' gazes were fixed at the kites in the sky. Weirdos on stilts got out a giant jump rope while 7 year-olds scrambled to queue. It was like a Benetton ad, without the clothes marketed to white people, and if you threw in women flying kites in burkhas.

We'd come all this way for a friend's birthday picnic, and it was well worth it. I do love a good community festival. We parked ourselves off to the side of the fray so as not to get garotted, and sneakily popped the champers, adding some orange juice for justification.

There was some un-authentic sounding gypsy music on stage, followed by African dancing. I zoned out for awhile and we went to go examine the wares for sale. There seemed to be an inordinate amount of politically incorrect kites for sale, such as the "Midget" kite:

As well as what was obviously the "Gay Shark" kite:

Still, all was going well until it became suddenly clear that one of the guys on stilts was on a dangerous course of his mushroom trip. By this time several kites had gotten stuck in trees, so the Ren Fest reject decided to climb a tree on stilts. You know bad shit's going down when you hear moms going, "really, it's okay! Just leave the kite up there."

Naturally, I wasn't going to let this go undocumented.

Sadly, he didn't die. Or maybe I got bored and left before the end, I don't remember. Anyway, everything was wrapping up and the cable-access trained Emcee for the day was blathering on and on into his microphone. A little girl of about 9 climbed up on stage, which prompted the Emcee to lean over and condescendingly ask her, "would you like to say anything about the fun you've had here today?"

"Bite me," she replied.

My day was complete.

Choice eh brew!

2009-03-03T16:42:00.009+11:00

I've often said that New Zealand is the Canada of Australia. Let's look at the following parallels:

• New Zealanders hate when they're overseas and people ask them if they're Australian.
• Canadians hate when they're overseas and people ask them if they're American.

• New Zealanders have an amazingly beautiful country with 4 people in it.
• Canadians have an amazingly beautiful country with 8 people in it.

• New Zealanders end lots of sentences with 'eh!'
• Canadians end lots of sentences with 'eh?'

• New Zealanders spend lots of time criticizing Australia and touting their own country, yet 20% of their population lives overseas.
• Canadians spend all their time criticizing America and touting their own country, yet 90% live along the American border.

Lots of Kiwis and Canucks are actually super funny people, but they don't seem to have much of a sense of humor when it comes to Americans or Australians making fun of them. But sometimes they just make it so easy.

I picked this up in a hotel lobby in Queenstown, NZ last month. In their defense, the country's tourism went through the roof after the Lord of the Rings trilogy; how were they to know they inadvertently opened their doors to nerds the world over?

This 'official' Lord of the Rings Tour offers the following adventures:
1. Walking around on grass
2. Eating lunch in a restaurant
3. Hearing lots of information about the Lord of the Rings movies
4. Dressing up like an elf and/or wizard
...all for the low, low price of $170 per person.

If those highlights didn't grab you, read the testimonials:

"4 words: Lord of the Tours." --H.K, United Kingdom
This guy thought that zinger up before he even got off the plane.

"ORCsome scenery, ORCstanding information." --Barb.
Is it bad that I assume Barb is obese?

"We are huge fans of LOTR and your enthusiasm and deep knowledge of the LOTR trilogy made the day so fantastic." -- Jing Man and James Kho
DEEP KNOWLEDGE.

And most disturbingly,
"Thank you for the most incredible day of my life." --D.R.

Lastly, I would be remiss if I didn't mention their 'weapons trail' which allows you to see their very rare collection of LOTR weapons. Uh. IT'S NOT REAL. The movies were made like 5 years ago--how are the weapons rare? Aren't they just props?

* * *

I've been slack in posting about my trip to New Zealand (unlike Mr Goody Two-Shoes Nick, who seems to blog his life in real time.) We were there for 2 weeks for my sister-in-law's wedding to a very large Kiwi named Anton, who is fantastic, but as I said, huge, and I don't want to make fun of his country because he might hurt me.

New Zealand is absolutely gorgeous. There's no disputing this fact. As one Kiwi declared to me, "Any Christian would agree it's the most beautiful place on Earth." I wasn't sure how to respond to this so I just smiled. Something tells me they don't have many non-Christians there, so I wasn't going to mention my slight case of Atheism, which occasionally tends toward Judaism.

We took a bunch of little day trips all over the South Island. On about Day 3 I declared to husband that I wanted to go on a hike.
"But you've only brought 3 pairs of high heels," he pointed out cautiously.
(silence....)
So I went hiking in my lowest pair of heels.

I tried not to bring up any place outside of New Zealand for fear of the Kiwis getting defensive; I understood the propensity toward it, but sometimes I wanted to point out that I wasn't comparing New Zealand with New York or Melbourne. That would be a pointless endeavor. Instead I learned all I could about the newest country in the world, drank Raro, ate Perky Nanas, and had about 5 cones of Hokey Pokey ice cream. I chased a sheep into a field, struggled to pronounce Maori words, and tried my damndest not to imitate their accents. It's harder than you'd think.

Let me tell you somethin' about Californians.

2009-03-02T15:05:00.004+11:00

So on Friday I finally met Nick, against whom I am competing for the next five days in our nerdily-named Blog Off.

I was meeting up at my old studio beforehand, but because all trams to Collingwood suck, I ended up walking most of the way there and back, busting the caps off my heels and feeling the Crisco-like coating of summer evening sun slowly sink into my pores. By the time I got back to the city, I had to dash home and get some new pub crawl heels.

We met up at Hells, but not before I frightened him by texting "are you black?" whilst trying to figure out where he was sitting. As he'd already had a gander at Husband's tattooed-and-baldness, naturally he started wondering whether he'd just asked to have a pub crawl with Heath and Deborah Campbell. Not so, my friends. Awhile back (I may have been stoned) I was reading a post on Nick's blog and thought it would be awesome to be able to have an African-American friend from the States here in Melbourne. Somehow that led me to decide he was, in fact, black. Alas, he is white. But that's okay too.

Here are some things I've learned about Nick:

1. He neither sleeps nor eats very much, so I therefore ate 2 kilos of fries and calamari by myself, and started vaguely worrying whether he was going to faint, and what I would do in such a situation.

2. Bogans scare the shit out of him. I think, however, this may extend to blokey bloke drunk Aussies in general. I was stunned to find out that he thought Fitzroy was dodgy, and I set out to prove him wrong. I spend so much time with Australian men that I really don't notice that their abrupt manners and growly voices and convict heritages are a bit Rottweiler-esque, and it wasn't until we sat down in the beer garden of the Napier that I really thought about this.

3. He is modest and considerate; it was good of him to present himself on my home turf and open himself up to being scrutinized by the above Aussie men. I'm a bit of a Rottweiler myself at times, with a liquid courage attitude that says, "I may not be invincable, but I'll make you wish you were dead if you try messing with me."

4. He's not very good at talking shit. I think the closest he got to baiting was calling me a sissy.

5. Nick travels here and I don't.

Well.

I think this is where we established the divergence of our respective experiences. Because while I have been thrust into Australian life like Mowgli in the jungle, Nick has had to find his own way. And maybe this is why he doesn't feel so compelled to rant about these new situations he finds himself in. He embraces it, travels, makes Excel spreadsheets about his experiences. I whine about stupid shit like cop uniforms because I didn't come here to be in Australia.

But I know Melbourne. I haven't really left it in two-and-a-half years. I can drag an American from Centre Place to Gertrude Street; I can show him the original Niagara behind the bar of the Napier Hotel and lead him back to the city after 64 vodka-sodas. I could have shown him Smith Street — my first glimpse of Australia — and told him how the first time I heard AC/DC here was because I was living across the street from The Tote. I could have shown him the timeless Pellegrini's on Bourke Street, introduced him to Australia's top baristas, or shown him how to break into the North Melbourne pool.

I don't like to admit that I've learned much living here. It feels too much like a betrayal to the home I miss every day. But the truth is, this is my home too now. I'm emotionally invested and will be sad to leave even though I know I'll be back again before long. Nick and I talked about how once you're gone from the States long enough, you start feeling displaced, because you don't really belong anywhere anymore. And that was how I felt for a long time. It is only now, that I am leaving, that I can say otherwise.

Mondays, Unemployment, Christina Aguilera and other stuff that sucks.

2009-02-23T13:51:00.004+11:00

I'm on a bit of a roll today folks, and that's because I am currently without any client work, which makes me cranky and nervous, instantly resorting to eating poor people food. I made a tuna melt for lunch and inexplicably added beets to it. This is what happens when I try to assimilate. What was I trying to prove by engaging in this totally weird Australian custom of adding beets to everything?

I realized I had bought Coles brand tuna and Coles brand beets in an attempt to save 60 fucking cents and in the process I ruined what is arguably the greatest and most underrated American sandwich by adding purple.

And while I'm on the subject of Coles, why is it that they can get away with getting Christina Aguilera in my head? I've now been humming 'Genie in a Bottle' for the past two hours. I listened to a new Wu-Tang track and that Linda Perry-written bullshit still won out. I would like to call in my one wish to the Wu-Tang genies to meet up with Christina Aguilera in a dark alley to wipe that skank's face off her head.

* * *

BRB, I'm gonna go frown at some tourists.

* * *

Okay. It's T-minus 16 weeks until Dangerous Girl and Husband go back to the States for a long sejourn and I am freaking out about the Global Economic Crisis. It would be fine if I like, knew how to grow some vegetables and was living in a place with grass or some shit, but we're moving back to New York City, which was hard enough when employment was relatively easy to come by.

I do this though; I sort of manifest little dramas like this because I think it makes life interesting. And Husband is so easy-going that he doesn't seem to mind it. That laid-back confidence truly is the Aussie way (as opposed to the neurotic, over-researched confidence that only an insomniac with ulcers can seem to maintain.) For example, it wasn't enough drama for me to decide, 6 weeks ahead of time, to move to Australia instead of staying in New York. Nope, had to quit my job, move out of my apartment, sell my possessions and throw in a wedding in there, forcing my family to fly into NYC on very little notice, and the in-laws to fly in from everywhere else. What was the hurry? Dunno. But everything turned out fine.

Americans love a conflict.

2009-02-23T13:06:00.003+11:00

Dear Readers,

I received the following email in my inbox today from a fellow American who lives in/blogs about Melbourne:

Dear Sister, My name is Nickolas James Gardner of Inglewood California USA and I am of the royal descent of Jasper Tudor and a total idiot that is a direct descendant of King Henry the VIII.
I run a solo institution that I call my life that is published under the guise of www.nobodylikesanamerican.blog.com. I challenge Husband and thee to a blog off. Accept or don’t accept, Nickolas Gardner

This was my reply:

Bring it.

What should the terms be? Here was my idea: Nick and I will each post once per day for one week, encouraging our readers somewhere in each post to mosey on over to the rival's site, and declaring a daily winner in the comments section. The loser has to [insert annoying American antic/public shame here]

Nick's idea is that we meet up, go on a pub crawl, and the next day, write about our antics on our respective sites.

I like the idea of American v. American in Australia. I imagine for our Aussie readers it'll be a bit like watching some kind of illegal dog fight, except between two dogs you think are obnoxious, so you don't really care about their welfare.

Pun Times in Sydney

2009-01-03T01:09:00.010+11:00

If Melbourne is home to the hair salon pun, I guess Sydney wins "most pervy". After 2 years in Safety Town, I finally ventured up there and spent a very nice Christmas just outside the home of Hugh Jackman. [Not literally. The closest I've come to stalking an Australian actor was drunkenly going through Heath Ledger's recycling bin in Brooklyn. I wish I were kidding.]

Anyhoo. I was strolling along Oxford Street when I looked up and saw a booze store entitled Lick-Her Shop. It actually exists! I'd been told about it but assumed my friend was just talking shit.

Not only is it real, it happened to be adjacent to The Tool Shed, which I'm guessing is a euphemism for a vagina because, well, it looked like a vagina club. Lo and behold I was on to something, because right next to that was The Pleasure Chest. Apparently Sydney is also home to Governor's Pleasure Lingerie Restaurant as well as Bada Bing Nightclub. I didn't see these last two, and they're not puns, but wow.

I was also impressed by Sequins of Events and wondered how the fuck someone would want to work at a place that undoubtedly caters to bridezillas.

Verne Jewels took me a minute. Hot air balloon: Jules Verne. I didn't go inside, but it didn't seem terrible. All in all I didn't spend enough time in Sydney to find more businesses with pun names, but based on what I did see I'm sure it's chock full.

* * *

This image just needed to be up here. Unbelievable.

6 Ways to Punish Assholes

2009-01-02T22:39:00.005+11:00

I hate guns. I think they should be illegal in the States the way they are here and most other places in the world. Proponents of the "right" to bear arms are fucking retarded for not seeing the link between legalized weapons and shitstorms of gun fights. But I can't help but wonder if they are the deterrent to certain types of crime in the United States. Because senseless violent crime in Melbourne is rife, and the perpetrators don't seem to be afraid (aware?) of the consequences of shit they instigate.

Nowhere else have I seen so much random drunken wreckage of one's own city. Glassing is becoming more and more common--one famous football player, Wayne Carey, glassed his own girlfriend in the face in a pub in front of a bunch of people. Large groups of drunk men prowl around the city, completely off their faces, baiting people so they can kick the shit out of them. I don't think guns are a solution to anything, I just wonder if it's that unknown variable in the States that perhaps causes people to hesitate before instigating such violence.

The pic above is a ghost bike: a memorial to a cyclist who died on the road. This is the first ghost bike I've seen in Melbourne, but they're not an infrequent sight in New York. But this is the first time I've seen one kicked and bashed by what was obviously random drunken violence. What makes this one so especially sad is that the cyclist, Carolyn Rawlins, was crushed by a bus a few months ago on Swanston Street while on her way to work. She was only 33, and she was pregnant. There are countless things that make this story so tragic, but the pointless abuse of her memorial by violent drunks is unconscionable. For one thing, what kind of monster vandalizes a memorial? I don't care how drunk you are, you don't fuck up a humble memorial. Secondly, why is it okay to kick the shit out of any bicycle? These assholes don't go around bashing people's cars--why is someone's bike any different? I'll tell you why: because the suburban pricks who demolish the city love their fucking cars, and they have no respect for people who ride bikes, and they certainly don't want to share the road with them. The really sick thing is that Safety Town is crawling with cops. But they're either blind or, more likely, just don't think all this is a punishable crime.

As if that all weren't bad enough, Safety Town has a new mayor, who insensitively ran on a promise to open Swanston Street up to regular traffic (right now it is only open to buses, taxis, and other service vehicles) right after her death. The average morning sees thousands of commuting cyclists down Swanston Street, and adding more traffic and danger is so not the answer to anything, except perhaps appeasing the morons who complain about traffic jams in a city (oh really? you say the second largest city in Australia is...full of people?!).

If you've gotten this far in my bitching, I applaud you, and hope that this preface has inspired you to suggest your own additions to the list below:

List of How to Punish Violent Suburban Drunks

1. All city residents are invited to go to VSD's McMansions and piss and vomit in their front yards without consequence.

2. If you've got a girlfriend or boyfriend you want to have an argument with, preferably a fight where you just talk bullshit in Outside Voice, I'd like to invite you to do so underneath a VSD's bedroom window.

3. Slash their SUV tires and/or bust their tinted windows with a baguette because we are all French fags.

4. Replace all the King Street strip joints with organic supermarkets and hybrid car dealerships.

5. Nutslaps.

6. Draw face pubes on their David Beckham/Bono posters with bike grease.

Suggestions welcome in the comments.

"Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization"

2008-12-05T12:36:00.004+11:00

Thank you adbusters, for fueling my disdain for the vacuous and self-obsessed era of hipster, the only people who've managed to make me feel bad about myself while actually just being ignorant assholes.

While I openly admit to ascribing to some of its definitions, (I ride a bike instead of driving, and it is fixed-gear) I attribute the similarities to a generational trend (I live in a city, I don't drive in Australia, it's ethically sound) rather than some embrace of apathy. Apathetic I am not; I am not afraid of describing and defending what I find interesting or what might move me to feel something, and I'm certainly politically and socially aware and active.

But maybe that's because I'm not a teenager, and I don't think that having an informed opinion makes me vulnerable. Also: I'm a feminist. Most of the hipster girls I meet are too concerned with looking like an American Apparel ad and being perved on by Dov's disciples to care much for the fight for equality.

All this brings me, however, to the fact that I've just justified how I am not a hipster. And as my friend Tim once observed, "only hipsters talk about hipsters."

UPDATE: There's an interesting response here, from a former Vice writer.
I think my biggest thing with hipsters is not so much their conformity (the Vice guy is right, that's just the case with the majority of the population) but their apathy. The hipsters I know are not the ones the Vice guy is talking about; Melbourne hipsters are small-town kids who think they're hot shit, don't know anything about the world and don't care to. They are politically and socially retarded and they're proud of it, and it is precisely that ignorance mixed with arrogance which drives me to hate people--anyone.

That's More Like It.

2008-12-04T14:17:00.003+11:00

From the NYTimes: "An eight-ton, 72-foot Norway spruce lit up with sparkling holiday colors as thousands of onlookers packed into the streets surrounding the center's plaza, with its famed skating rink and gilded statue depicting Prometheus bringing fire to mankind."

Christmas: Oh come ON, Australia.

2008-11-30T15:23:00.002+11:00

* * *

I was one of those lame kids who totally gets in to the Spirit Of Christmas. Come Thanksgiving I was all head-high and grinning (lips closed of course--this was pre-toothal-rearrangement, mind you,) making hand-made Christmas cards and carefully selecting which flavors of Jelly Bellys I would arrange in clear plastic boxes from Cargo Hold for the two people I called friends in middle school. It was so pathetic that when I was 14 and still hadn't come out to my parents as An Official Non-Believer in Santa, my stepmother pulled me aside and said, 'I know maybe you're just accommodating your little brother and sister, but Santa really doesn't exist [she braced herself and squared my shoulders:] it's JUST ME AND DAD.'

I was embarrassed; clearly my enthusiasm had caused my parents to rethink whether I might actually be retarded. No, I didn't really still believe in Santa, but by now I believed in Mariah Carey's first album, and that was enough to make me happy even as I was realizing that Michigan was not a romantic place to be for drama queens like me. I also didn't want to get less presents in the event that I did confess to knowing the truth. Anyway, like a normal teenager, I quickly discovered hatred for most things around me, and so the Spirit of Christmas evaporated, like bong smoke on a windy day.

My spirit was renewed, however, upon visits to Chicago in my late teens, and to New York in my early 20s. The cities boasted big Northern trees in their central squares—20-foot Norwegian furs, stacked with tasteful Christmas bling and nestled in an attractive depth of snow (holy shit I should write Pottery Barn catalogs). People bustled on Michigan and Fifth Avenues, shopping and pretending to look fucked off but secretly enjoying the dramatic and romantic vapor that reminded them of familiar movies.

Let me restate that I'm a total drama queen, and that a lot of the time I was herding through the masses in New York I had just had a pot brownie or had slipped Jamesons in my latte to help warm the walk. Like, that explains the stoned euphoria. But still. It was something.

* * *

So when they put this tree up every year in City Square in Melbourne, I just have to audibly sigh. Why are the tourists taking pictures of this thing? It is to make fun of it, right? You're not actually thinking this is what Christmas looks like, right?

Then they put these cheese-butt banners up on the major streets that say "Christmas" in whimsy bullshit lettering, to remind you that while you're sweating and getting skin cancer in this harsh Australian sun, you should suspend your belief long enough to think of Santa, snow, the North Pole, roast turkey, wool sweaters, extra blankets and milk. But the problem is just thinking about that shit when it's 85 degrees WILL ACTUALLY MAKE YOU VOMIT.

I say: just give it up. Stop calling it Christmas and just make it Presents and Lobster Day. Gifts n' Grog. Whatever. You're just making the rest of us reminisce for the days of Mariah*.

*Vision of Love was a good album, shut up.

Live Blogging the U.S. Election

2008-11-05T11:12:00.043+11:00

I'm sitting here at Jeremy's with Stuart and Rachel and we're all pretending to be really important, sitting in front of Jeremy's gigantor TV with our various Mac laptops. It's funny watching this in Australia, where Australian television has just succumbed to streaming the American Broadcasting Company, with Channel 9 anchors occasionally jumping in to go, "uh. Yeah, so...this is a...historic...uh...black person." Rachel predicts the Aussie broadcasters are going to talk about Barack Obama being "clean" and "articulate" at some point in the game today.

11:27: Channel 9 has made their "break to commercial" graphic the U.S. presidential seal with a Hendrix-style guitar riff of Pomp & Circumstance. Nice.

11:37: CNN's pundits have amazing skin. Anderson Cooper is a gay icon.

11:41: Every woman involved in this campaign, including Diane Sawyer, is wearing false eyelashes. I have no problem with this. Charlie Gibson is annoying me already. RIP Peter Jennings.

11:47: Channel 9's studio anchor is asking the US Correspondent, "how did those people behind you get in? Did they have to buy tickets?"

11:52: One of Channel 9's pundits is bright red and possibly still drunk from Cup Day.

12:01: Charlie Gibson is telling us which states he wants Obama to win: Delaware, DC, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Maryland, Connecticut and Massachusetts. Yessss. John McCain's got Kentucky, Oklahoma and Tennessee. "People project Florida too early to their own peril"

12:07: CNN dude loves his touch screen software. He's pointing to random counties and babbling about some kind of trend, "John McCain cannot afford to underperform George W Bush in these areas." What?

12:09: ABC dude is talking about going to a bowling alley in Altoona, PA for reasons unknown.

12:15: Sources tell us CNN has 3D holograms!

12:18: Obama is hott.

12:26: Australia's Channel 7 news anchor to their Phoenix correspondent: "are the Republicans looking morose yet?" Also, Sarah Palin voted in jeans and a Carharrt jacket made out of moose.

12:30: Wolf Blitzer in da house!

12:35: Channel 7's anchor says, "this is not just about who's going to be in the White House, it's also about bums on seats in congress."

12:39: Wolf is calling Pennsylvania for Obama. WOOT!

12:51: The Australians around me are scared of James Carville. Fair enough.

12:54: Four years ago I spent about 9 months volunteering with NARAL, registering women to vote through phone banks and later, by bussing myself and elderly Jewish women to Pennsylvania most Saturday mornings to do non-partisan door-knocking. I ended up campaigning in some capacity in 4 states, and while those all went blue, I spent Election Night crying in front of the television at my friend Brian's house, spliff in hand, after a very long and exhausting day in Pennsylvania.

It kills me a little that I wasn't able to be active in my community during this campaign. I certainly would have been more inspired by this election cycle, and I've got friends back home who say they were sad I couldn't have been there with them.

Anyway, I'm glad to be here. And this year I'll be smoking a celebratory spliff.

1:00: Michigan goes to Obama! REPRESENT!

1:02: Tom Brokaw's experienced timbre joins the fray. "It's all about the economy." No shit!

1:03: NBC's map is an ICE RINK upon which they're sticking red or blue vinyl state stickers. Lame. [UPDATE: I am dum and didn't realize it's Rockefeller Center. That makes more sense.]

1:04: The Australian anchor wants to know: "If Obama loses, will there be riots in the States?" You wish, Shane.

1:14: Holy shit. Obama is leading in Ohio AND Florida. Although Fox News is saying McCain's only .4% behind in the popular vote. Aw HELL no!

1:20: Charlie Gibson is on the touch screen. I hate watching old people try to use computers.

1:27: OBAMA HAS JUST WON OHIO. NO REPUBLICAN IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD HAS WON THE PRESIDENCY WITHOUT IT.

1:31: Oprah says "it's a moment for all Americans." I'm waiting for her to say "you go girl" to Obama.

1:40: Some country hoo-ha moron is playing the gee-tar on stage in Phoenix, trying to temper the blow of those assholes losing Ohio.

1:44: In the background of Channel 9's coverage in Phoenix, it totally looks like they're packing up the stage. SBS is covering the election after 2pm, after "Cooking in the Danger Zone."

1:46: The Australians are reporting, "you blokes are gonna need a miracle mate." I think we should be drinking every time someone says "blow."

1:47: Who the fuck styled Channel 9's "Mike"? He's wearing a tie Jeremy describes as "novelty squirting tie"

1:53: This girl is totally reporting "statistics" that she read on Facebook and Twitter. Um. She's getting paid for this? Why isn't she reading DGIST?!

1:56: Australian correspondent says "I think this election will make a difference in America more than Australia."

1:59: Anderson Cooper says, "Joe the Plumber isn't the face of America, don't they get that?"

2:00: Mormons love McCain in Utah, ____* love Obama in Iowa.

*who lives in Iowa again?

2:02: Anderson Cooper wants to know if they can go home once Obama hits 270. His pundits are working out the math of what time they can split.

2:03: There is a collective "awwww!" in the room as I announce Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert are on live now (and it's not syndicated on TV here.)

2:07: James Carville, while describing the monumental Democratic sweep, is basically saying "I'm not going to get laid for awhile, folks."

2:12: Aussie correspondent says, "I was talking to a black American at the airport, a black American who was cleaning shoes, and he says he is scared that Barack Obama won't win."

2:15: Australian "US Politics Analyst" is totally using the wrong terminology..."the Republican caucus needed to fix the economy."

2:17: IT'S OFFICIAL: Channel 9 declares Barack Obama the next president.

2:24: Jezebel blogger says "SPENCER: Take a drink every time Dana Bash blinks and you will be FITSHACED." Dana Bash looks like the dad in Finding Nemo.

2:25: Harry Malkonian is the only American on Aussie TV and Carolyn says "is Michael Musto's dad."

2:29: Channel 9's interim guitar riff has switched to the Star Spangled Banner!

2:32: Anderson Cooper is trying to make some random point and his pundits basically just told him to shut up. "Let's resist the temptation to characterize the Republican party as old white men" FUCK OFF OLD WHITE MAN!

2:38: Al Franken may win a Minnesota senate seat?!

2:43: Just drank for first mention by Australian anchors for "first Jew." Who knows what he's talking about. Lieberman maybe?

2:58: VIRGINIA FOR OBAMA! Hasn't happened since LBJ in 1964.

3:00: CNN Breaking News: Barack Obama elected president!!!!!

Otherness

2008-10-31T23:01:00.003+11:00

I'm starting on the sauce a bit earlier than usual next Wednesday, to kick in the Obama presidency in real-time. So like, 8am screwdrivers. I've been really bummed out that I haven't been in the States these past two years of campaigning–I'm one of the most politically-obsessed people I know–but it's been interesting to have this faraway perspective.

My friends in NYC are describing this feeling of surge and renewal around them, despite the economy collapsing, due mostly to Obama. As I've scoured the NYTimes every day, I've been thinking a lot about the divisive nature of people—of only feeling strong by feeling a part of something that others are not a part of. It's a basic instinct and has been used blatantly and successfully throughout our collective political history.

But being behind the candidate who kicks the dust off the high road, and "incidentally" into his opponents' faces, I can't help but feel embarrassed for having bought into my own aggression. It makes me feel like getting called up as being mean when really I'm just at a loss of something better to say.

I haven't written a post on here in 6 months because I'm feeling this "otherness" so overwhelmingly that I've considered scrapping this blog and renaming it The Reluctant Australian. It's like I'm telling myself, "I'm here, not there, get over it." It's just that these little Aussie things aren't so funny any more. Or maybe they are still, but my lone laughter is sounding a bit tragic.

Don't get me wrong: Safetytown is alive and well. I'm still noticing hilarious signs, or big useless clusters of them, or a row of bike racks mowed down by a Friday night motorist: (why did they put safety tape around it? "Don't hit the bike racks again."?)

But my point is I can be and am critical about anything and everything, so the scope of what I write may not be defined by my lack of connection to Safetytown anymore. It'll make it easier to write, at the very least.

Whatever, I'm not even drunk. It's Friday night and I'm blogging. If I were saying all this aloud, next to you at the bar, you'd rightly call me an emo and tell me to fuck off.

So I'll follow your advice and sign off now.

Cheers mate!

Ute tell me.

2008-04-24T15:41:00.006+10:00

The Ute is truly an Australian icon, as well as being the mullet of the car world: business at the front, party (or vehicle for livestock) at the back. I made this observation the other day while making a hook turn on my bicycle, and thinking "oh that sedan is about to tur---oh that's not a sedan, it's the ugliest car ever designed."

History tells us that the humble beginnings of the Ute were born from a rural Australian woman, who asked some dude who worked at Ford, "Why don’t you build people like us a vehicle to go to church in on a Sunday, and which can carry our pigs to market on Mondays?"

Why, indeed. Now, I'm not knocking the obvious benefits to having a Ute. They're very handy if you're moving and a friend happens to have one. Tradesmen use them for work. Some people probs still put their pigs in the back. That makes sense, if you have pigs you want to drive around. What does not make sense, however, is trying to make them glamorous, or even remotely attractive. They should not be painted yellow. Yellow is a ridiculous color for a car anyway, but on a Ute it's especially offensive because you can't help but have to look--not only at the ugliest car ever made, but at the invariably frightening owner of the vehicle.

I would venture to describe your average yellow Ute driver in more scathing detail, but I'm not exactly incognito here, and frankly I don't feel like getting my ass kicked by a local. I'll just post a picture up and then you can be in charge of being judgmental.

Yesterday, my friend Nev brought the Deniliquin Utemuster to my attention. It's some kind of Ute convention, not wholly unlike lots of events I'm sure Southerners call "tradition" and "heritage," which include essential props like cowboy hats, random sofas in parking lots, and women who pretend to be interested so they can get some fucking attention from their mens once in awhile.

This is all leading up to an inevitable post that will chart the similarities and differences between white trash and the Aussie bogan. Stay tuned.

Google in Cahoots with Safety Town

2008-04-24T11:04:00.003+10:00

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

2008-04-21T11:24:00.006+10:00

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.

* * *

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

2008-04-06T00:54:00.010+11:00

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.

2008-03-19T22:50:00.002+11:00

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

2008-01-30T19:03:00.001+11:00

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

2008-01-19T19:57:00.001+11:00

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

2007-12-20T11:07:00.000+11:00

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.

Mysterious Shopping Cart Disappearances Elude Cops, Draw Support from Rich Morons

2007-11-21T13:38:00.000+11:00

These flyers were at the checkouts of the grocery store last week. Considering this particular store is in Collingwood, I'm not sure how the trolleys' owners can remain this baffled.

Even I, a non-junkie, know that the bench in front of the store is a hot spot for scoring smack; across the street in two directions are popular places for outdoor drinking at 9am. It's Smith Street for Chrissake—a road I once described to my sister as the Old West, if you added tacky aluminum awnings, dollar stores, tram lines, drunk Aboriginals and toothless heroin addicts. Charming, no?

Actually, it is. Maybe it's because this street was my first exposure to Australia—back when I came to visit husband back when he was my bf—but Smith Street on a sunny day is probably where I'm most at home here.

But another street in Melbourne, Sydney Road, which features many of Smith Street's characteristics, is just ugly and depressing to me. I can't really tell you why, although part of it is also that people like Sydney Road better than Smith Street, and I'm an underdog kind of girl. [Locals: don't argue with me on this. You will not change my mind. Yes, Ray has the best coffee evs. I don't care.]

Anyway, I'm neglecting my point. Then again, so are those trying to "clean up our streets" by offering rewards for missing carts.

A Lil' Note about Culture Clashing

2007-11-19T17:17:00.000+11:00

I'm going home in a little over a month, and as excited as I am, and as much as I've been waiting for this, I'm starting to get nervous. I'll finally be doled some perspective about the differences between here and NYC, and I have no idea what to expect.

I'm also realizing that I haven't experienced enough in the past year. Haven't even made a dent in all there is to see. I've been so busy downshifting from One of the Biggest Cities to a smaller city that I sometimes forget that there's like, a lot more than the city of Melbourne on offer. But I do try.

It's an incredibly difficult thing to motivate oneself to explore an area that, for all intents and purposes, is completely foreign. It's daunting. You relinquish the confidence of control when you decide to make such strides away from familiarity. My bff cokane has recently joined me in our respective experiences of culture shock, although unlike my kind Aussie friends and neighbs, she's not being very well received.

Her struggle with starting a new life in the Deep South has really helped put my own move into perspective. Yeah, I moved so far away I can't even visit my family without taking a dent out of my yearly salary, but I moved to my husband's home, where friends, family, and familiarity were already well-established. I haven't had to work too hard to find companionship. Awesome people are seriously everywhere. 98% of them don't even hold my Americanness against me.

While it's not all that hard for me to come up with things I love about Melbourne, I do get incredibly homesick, so it's more entertaining for me to point out how (sometimes, literally) backwards shit here is than to whine about missing my mom. And you know what? The locals here think my outsider's views are funny. They don't take offense that I bitch about the fact that despite its best efforts, David Jones is no Barney's. They're not competing, and they're not insecure.

So get a clue, BaRou: our observations about your home are sometimes just how we cope with missing our own.

Dangerously Boringly Skinny

2007-11-02T23:51:00.001+11:00

It's every where right now, isn't it? Girls being too skinny and girls obsessing about not being skinny enough—whether they're famous and stumbling off the cover of some shit magazine or they're insecure and eating cucumbers at each meal—haute couture says, "the thinner, the better!"

Just think, even porn star Jemma Jameson [left]—whose appeal once lie in her curvy (albeit silicone) figure of tits, hips and ass—has turned into a walking Cheeto. I guess a lot of people who see her now think ewwww who'd wanna fuck that? And yeah, fuckability can be a valid measure of how attractive someone is, but more rationally, what's going on in the world where a porn star feels the need to emaciate herself in order to get some fucking attention? Why wasn't being fucked on camera three ways til Sunday good enough?

So it's particularly appalling to me that I keep walking by these department store display windows in Melbourne and seeing emaciated mannequins sporting the new lame sack dresses du jour. You can tell they're trying to be all anorexic chic by the really attractive slump in their posture (early onset osteoporosis happens when you don't have any nourishment) and the pronounced clavicle.

Nothing says beautiful, confident, independent woman like a piece of plastic that could've gone on to live a fulfilling and productive life as a dildo, only to be molded into a limp, slouchy, vacuous IV stand.

Let's compare these photos to the true mannequin: Kim Cattrall in 1987 cult classic Mannequin. At least Kim had something to say, you know? She was lending her proportions to the art of that mush-face Andrew McCarthy. They rode on a motorcycle. It was real living, man.

At the end of the day I guess my biggest problem is these bitches in the Myer windows clearly don't know how to have fun. But look again at Kim Cattrall! She's all into that burger head Andrew McCarthy! Why? Who cares? She can rock magenta!

Party Tram, Excellent.

2007-11-01T12:30:00.001+11:00

It's that time again, to say something positive about Oz. It's been difficult lately, what with getting run down by Japanese Paris Hilton, and the jihad Aussies seem to have against Halloween. Someone told me the other day that when kids are growing up here, Halloween is sorta cool but you learn at the same time that it's "just another made-up, consumerist American 'holiday'".

Excuse me, but dressing up and being creative about it, then drinking a shit load to celebrate said creativity isn't exactly American ingenuity, it's French or something, so whatevs to that.

But The Party Tram changed everything. I spotted it while walking down Bourke Street the other night and my negativity about Oz just faded away. I couldn't tell if the passengers on-board were there to party or not. Either way: RAD.

Speaking of parties, summertime is almost here. It's strange being on the opposite end of seasonal depression/elation from my U.S. friends. I was talking to my dad the other week and he was lamenting that it will soon be too cold for him to live in the garage, which is basically where you can find him from May to October. Whereas here, the mood is only getting feistier.

Right now Melbourne is celebrating this thing called Spring Carnival, which has something to do with (mostly) white trash people (called "bogans") dressing up to go to the horse races in ridiculous hats and ill-fitting suits. It actually sounds like a fantastic sociological event, and I must confess I'd be remiss in my duties as a whining ex-pat if I left Melbourne without once bumping shoulders with these awesome people.

In other party news, I'm leaving Melbourne—for like, the third time since I moved here—to go to some friends' wedding in some place called Kyneton. I haven't been to a wedding since my own, during which the guy who's getting married this weekend did a faceplant at the after-party. Danger.

National "Safety" Month

2007-10-25T21:27:00.000+10:00

I thought maybe by it being National Safety Month n' all I wouldn't have to explain where I've been (out defying safety, natch.) But the truth is that I was a little embarrassed to tell you what happened to me, after my last post was all X-treme! That, and I do have a life you guys--do you know how time-consuming drinking is when you have a tolerance like mine?

Anyhoo, I was riding my bike one early evening to yoga, and upon slowing down to turn (the wrong way, down the tram tracks on Bourke Street), I got rear-ended by a new silver Mercedes, driven by a twat I like to call Japanese Paris Hilton. JPH, for short. Now, since I didn't see this coming, and I don't actually remember being hit, I have no idea what exactly happened. All I know is I was slowing down to turn and then I was peeling myself off the ground, my legs felt funny, and my bike was under a car. Later I would notice that my helmet was a little smashy.

It was 6pm in the center of the city, so a billion people saw this, and two nice dudes pulled my bike from under JPH's car. Some lady helped me up and asked if I wanted an ambulance. I declined and stood up and just stared in the direction of the car, as no one had surfaced yet. Finally, JPH and her blue contacts emerged and, sporting a big dumb smile, declared, "sorry!"

Why is girlfriend smiling?
ECS: "Uh. Why did you hit me?"
JPH: [still smiling] "I didn't know where you were going--you were wobbling!" [smile]
ECS: "So...you decided to hit me instead?"
JPH: "Sorry!" [unrelenting toothy grin]
ECS: "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

JPH took this as her cue that it's all good and got back into her car. She and Japanese Nicole Ritchie and Japanese Loho (in the backseat, probs chewing her face off), all stared straight in front of them as I kicked the car and yelled "stupid cunt" for whatever amount of time seemed adequate (and frankly, I was just repeating myself at this point, and I didn't want people to think I was retarded, or worse, not tough.) Then I wheeled my bike back home. I was only a block away.

About 7 minutes later I realized I was the fool of the sitch, as I did not get any of the bitch's details, and I could've gotten a new bike and some physical therapy out of it. Whatevs. I sorta refused to get shaken up by it, especially seeing how, for once, it wasn't my fault. As my friend Luke once wisely told me, "ecs, if you get hit, you won't even see it coming. So don't worry about it." Thanks dude. A week later, he stacked it and gave himself homemade stigmata. Ewwwww.

Dangerous Girl in Dangerous Town

2007-09-30T12:08:00.000+10:00

On Friday night we met up at Public Bar in North Melbourne to document the Melburn Massive Alley Cat. An alley cat is a bike race through a city, with checkpoints, at which participants receive the location to the next checkpoint. The people who race in these mostly bike couriers, and they're completely insane. And within this insanity is total awesomeness.

I rolled up still wearing heels, so I think I bought a little cred from the crowd, most of whom had started in on the first of many beers. Husband and I joined them, and for an hour and a half everyone continued to put 'em back. I was instantly struck by how friendly and inviting this group of kids was—a few of them knew Husband, but the fact that people came up and introduced themselves to me was really cool. I get really sick of the hipsters in this city, a lot of whom have to meet you five fucking times, and then assess whether they think you're cool, before they'll actually acknowledge you. Most of these people also happen to be total pussies. They are the cause of roughly 79% of my rage, which gets aggravated by alcohol (consumed at venues I have to share with them) and why people consequently think I'm a cunt.

So this was a total welcome change. Bike kids are not pussies. They are the opposite of hipsters. Pictured at left is Hillary, who is also a really awesome skater, and I suspect is not afraid of anything. As for me, I had a nice little buzz happening by the time the organizers decided to start things up. It was almost 8 o'clock, so it was completely dark at this point and starting to get really cold. Everyone scooped up their bikes and headed across to the Queen Victoria Market to begin. The participants had to lean their bikes up against a fence, then go about 25 yards away from them to learn the first checkpoint. Once they found out where they had to go, they ran over to their bikes, each grabbing a can of Red Bull from the ground, and they were off.

Husband and I had volunteered to man the second of the 5 checkpoints with a nice graphic designer/ex-courier dude. As we started to head over to our checkpoint, Husband said to him, "just so you know we're not like, awesome riders." I was so glad we gave forewarning, because as soon as we were off, the guy was weaving through traffic and jumping curbs at (my) top speed. If I hadn't had that alcohol, I would've been way too scared to keep up. As it was, I don't think I did too badly, and when we got to Telstra Dome, I tried to be cool about it.

It wasn't long before the first few started coming through, snatching the envelopes we extended out to them with instructions and directions. There were 25 racers altogether, so after giving out 21, we headed back to North Melbourne, where the winners were already drinking. The first guy through was totally crazy and won on speed, but the second guy through actually completed the tasks, so he was the real winner. One of the tasks along the way had been to bring a takeaway menu from a restaurant. One of the guys brought a whole sandwich board instead.
Everyone headed back to the bar and recommenced drinking, and prizes were given out: cash to the winner, bike shit to the guys who came in second and third, plus First Girl prize, which went to a girl named Sarah, a courier from Seattle. They even gave us a six-pack of Melbourne Bitter cans to thank us for doing the checkpoint. Such rad people! And all the amazing danger inspired me to ride all day yesterday. Score one for Safety Town.

Dead Man Jaywalking

2007-09-22T11:32:00.000+10:00

I haven't figured out yet why I haven't been hit by a car. In New York, pedestrians not only jaywalk, they hover around the edges of the streets even as oncoming lunatic cabbies threaten to slice the points off their shoes. People are like cockroaches, staying just far enough away, ever-encroaching, still daring to step ten feet off the curb in that crazed rush to get to the next place. If you've ever tried driving in Manhattan, you've seen this. A friend of mine was in the back of a cab once when a particularly brave little old lady stepped out into the street. The cab driver slammed on his brakes, stuck his head out the window and screamed, "you don't look like a fucking stop sign to me!" and proceeded to floor it through the intersection. In true NYC form, the old bag wasn't even phased by it.

In Melbourne, when you're waiting to cross the street, you stay on the sidewalk. Every time I step off the curb, looking up the street, watching for where I can dodge through like human Frogger, husband pulls me back and gives me that bitch is crazy look.

And apparently the authorities of Safety Town agree with him, because they've now instituted jaywalking blitzes across Australia. Blitz?! Like the fucking blitzkrieg?! So ... this is like, the fucking WWII of all Australian sting operations? Does this mean Australian cops are the Nazis and jaywalkers are the Jews?

Okay. It's on. I'm getting Russian on this sitch. (Husband is remaining contently Swiss) I hereby refuse to cross at crosswalks. Nein! I will stagger through the flow of traffic, leap toward moving trams, (Husband/Switzerland: you heard about the old lady who got chopped in half by a tram, didn't you?) and flip off that flashing dickless red man on the crosswalk sign.

Then, when the Nazis try to come for me, or my comrade (pictured), I'll bat my eyelashes, ham up my American accent, and pretend to be an ignorant tourist. Like I do when I'm getting out of tram fines. Shit costs money!

But once that's over I'll totally go to the bar and exaggerate my heroicism. It's the principle.

Come Here. I Have to Hit You.

2007-09-22T11:23:00.000+10:00

This is so retarded I can't even think of something to write.

Australians are a Bunch of Sluts

2007-09-16T12:07:00.000+10:00

I snapped this photo on the train platform during my recent excursion out of the city because I am really excited to be living in a place that isn't 100% retarded.

As a U.S American, this vaccine was not offered to me until I was already too old to get it, because certain religious groups caused a big ruckus over how giving women a vaccine against HPV, which leads to 75% of cervical cancer cases, is enabling and exacerbating whoredom.

Because, you know, it's more Christian to abstain from sex than to eradicate the second most deadly cancer to women! Oh and btw, I hope you also understand that if it caused prostate cancer this wouldn't be an issue. Women are just whores, and that's what we need to remember.

Double Dare and the Physical Challenge*

2007-09-10T20:42:00.000+10:00

A lot of people from home tell me that I'm brave for moving to Australia. I guess they mean that it is brave to move so far away from friends and family; brave to commit myself so concretely to a different culture, one I didn't know much about before making the commitment. But it isn't brave. It's just inconvenient.

And sure, Australia is inconvenient in the obvious way, of being long-distant, but to Americans, the culture's inconvenience hovers around annoying. Take a deep breath, Aussies, I'm not dissing you or your country. I'm saying that constant cultural difference can be, after all the emotional and physical aspects of it, straight up exhausting.

When I was 22, I lived for a brief stint in France, and I remember being so physically exhausted at the end of the day because I spent every waking minute not only observing an everyday life that was so completely new and foreign--but also thinking, speaking, and reading in French. Translating is exhausting. Using that much brain power to do mundane tasks can tire a girl out. But all that was sorta expected--it's a country that has a very specific culture and a completely different language. Australia isn't supposed to be like that.

For the most part, it isn't, of course. They speak English here. And Aussies are laid back in a way that I daresay Americans appreciate far more than the monarchical motherland. The Westernized way of life is about the same age as the U.S.A., so even a lot of the surroundings look similar. Basically it's as close to living in the States as you can get without getting your socialized health care revoked.

So what's annoying is that it's so similar I let my guard down. It's all the same but slightly different. It's disconcerting, like Surrealism or a suspense thriller starring John Cusack. No no--it's like everything is labeled incorrectly--i.e., tomato sauce is ketchup--so you have to keep looking at it to see what it is before you can trust its contents. The best example is the grocery store.

Upon entering, everything looks basically the same. Celine Dion is wailing through the speakers, children are already giving you a headache. Check. But then there's a crumpet aisle. ?? Where...you might also find cookies? Wrong. Experience reminds me to go to the biscuit aisle, where first I find crispbreads (=crackers, okay, makes sense, crisp+bread), then there are sections for plain biscuits, snack biscuits, and chocolate biscuits. So while I did find cookies, I'd like to note that nowhere in this aisle will you find fluffy bread goods traditionally served in the southern states with gravy.

Nearby is a wall-size display of Vegemite which I steer well clear of. I then come to another aisle featuring a no-brainer: toilet rolls. Okay, I can figure that one out too. But I need some sliced swiss cheese. There's no specific cheese section, just occasional refrigerated bays, so I circle all of them about 15 times and keep coming across Tasty cheese. I still have no idea what this is, but it comes in "extra Tasty." It's always capitalized, eluding to a proper noun, but I'm afraid of food with such ambiguous descriptions (see: Chinese food offering the choice of 'brown' or 'red' sauce), so I give up on that one. I also pass a "cordial" aisle. I'm venturing into foreign territory as somehow I've ended up back in the produce section, which has all kinds of Asian vegetables (yummy, but I don't need them today) but no corn.

Getting my ass to the grocery store is hard enough without obstacles, but when I have to get there by walking through a place that looks exactly like K-Mart but is instead called Big W, the frustration sharks start circling. I decide to get hand soap for the bathroom. I gaze up at the ceiling, toward the section signage. Big Dubbs has one section for haberdashery which I always thought was a ye olde word, but apparently not. It also has a section entitled "Manchester". This means sheets and bedding. I wander over to a section that looks vaguely soap-y but am told hand soap is in Health & Beauty.

No, it isn't. There is shower gel but that isn't the same thing. ? I guess I'll wander around this aisle for 10 more minutes until I realize what I'm doing and get so frustrated that out of the sizeable list of shit I needed to get I can only find 3 of them in 15 minutes' time. I'll spend my whole life here if I can't navigate this shit better, I start thinking, and this song sounds like some kinda Evanescence black hole and it would all be much more amusing if I didn't actually need anything from this place, or if I could buy it all and send it to people who would also find it funny-cause-it's-different.

But I live here now. And aside from being a foreigner, it is my home.

*The title is basically irrelevant to the content of this post.

No, Kylie, I Won't "Do" the Locomotion. (Whore.)

2007-09-03T19:23:00.000+10:00

On Sunday, I ventured out to a suburb by myself for the first time. I have been on the train several times but I don't ride it often, so I've missed out on some signage I'd never noticed before.

I was immediately entertained by the icon of the person falling through space, next to a separate icon of stairs. This is not a very efficient way of saying "slippery when wet". My favorite part about this sign is how the pigeons are sitting on top, waging a big eff-you coup against safety.

Once I was on the train, I got a little lost in the pretty scenery wooshing past me, and before I knew it, I was only one stop away from the Ascot Vale stop (so quaint sounding, right??!). But just then, a red-haired retarded girl sat uncomfortably close to me and put her book up in front of her face. It was one of those murder paperbacks. Apparently she didn't realize that the book was covering only half her face and that I could see her staring at me with a gigantic scary smile on her face. I got up before she could drool or pee on me and got off the train.

Speaking of drool and pee, this was the first sign I saw:
Another thing I noticed when I arrived at the station was that the waiting room did not smell like pee. It smelled like soap. I was all ???! I don't understand why it smells clean?

Anyway, enough about pee. Just like inner-city safety town, out in the 'burbs there were signs everywhere, courtesy of Connex, and like the "slippery when wet" one, they were laden with superfluous icons. The one at left says to me:

1. No bottled milk a la the 1950s. Get a Red Bull like everyone else and join this millenium, bub.

2. If you're sitting on a barrel, don't try and roll another one in front of you. That's just crazy.

3. Sliding atop many marbles is not a superior means of travel to our fine locomotives. Plus we don't like competition.

4. If you have a unibrow, please refrain from frowning.

See, Connex hasn't really mastered the diff between safety and manners. I think they're trying to just boss people around in general. Even on the inside of the train, they mixed it all up:

Smoking isn't so much dangerous as bad for your health. Feet on the seats? Just rude. As far as littering goes, unless it's marbles or a banana peel, I just don't see the harm. No indecent language or alcohol? What are you gonna do, ground me?

Forcing open the doors is the only thing on this sign that's legitimately unsafe. I can see their point there. But just remember: they're watching you.

Deep Thoughts, by ecs

2007-09-03T19:02:00.000+10:00

I don't really know how this is unsafe, per se, but the door to this ticket booth at the very fancy theatre on Collins Street was open, so, much like other open doors I see on Collins Street, I went in and made husband take a picture of me being an asshole. That's me going, "my job is exhausting!"

In a Land Without Mexicans, NASCAR

2007-09-03T18:40:00.000+10:00

As indicated above, I can no longer afford Budweiser and Corona. These beers, aside from PBR and various who-cares-what-it's-called-it's-cheap-Mexican-beer brands, were the go-to grogs of my 20s.

I shed a tear, oh bottle of piss, and pour out some Coopers just for you.

Dangerous Girl, Defined

2007-08-20T19:08:00.000+10:00

It's not so hard to explain how Melbourne is Safety Town. Even to lifelong residents, I need only to point out common occurrences, like this 3-way no-standing-anywhere pole, to validate my point.

But by now a few people have asked me why exactly that makes me Dangerous Girl.
The answer to this is two-fold.

Example no. 1: Somehow I engage in dangerous behavior without any purposeful effort.
earlier this evening:
The cabinets in my kitchen are quite high (which I find funny considering everyone in my building is a short Asian aside from me and husband). Tonight, I came home parched from riding my bike.

I reached up on to my tip-toes to get a water glass out of the cupboard. The glass slipped out of the cupboard, hit me in the head, then plummeted to its death, shattering on the tile floor. My left eye has been going blurry lately, (which I attribute to staring into the 100-watt light bulb I call my computer screen all day ) so I was already squinting, and then, rubbing my head, I knelt down to start picking up the shards, at which point I skewered my knee with a rogue, upright toothpick of glass.

Shit like this happens all the time.

Example no. 2: Sometimes I engage in dangerous behavior quite purposefully, because I think it is fucking hilarious. Friday night, I was out with husband a few friends. We proceeded to get quite shit-faced early in the evening, laughingly traipsing from one establishment to the next. In transit from bar #5 to bar #6, we happened to walk by The Melbourne Club, a ye olde white boys' club that used to hate Jews and still hates women. The door was open a crack.

I walked confidently, albeit drunkenly, up the steps and through the front door, heading straight for the beautiful winding staircase, noticing out of the corner of my eye the fat old security guard waking from his nap just in time to see the Intruder/Female Infidel. The boys tried to follow me but got way-laid by Lieutenant Dumpy Butt, allowing me to slip under the radar and successfully into the second level. As I didn't expect to get as far as I'd already gotten, I started trying to encroach upon the House of Patriarchy/Freemasons/KKK as much as possible, testing every door handle, and sneaking quickly from room to room, as the boys watched my progress through the windows down below.

Eventually it occurred to me that I was trespassing and being an asshole—possibly risking the crisp and clean status of my brand-new Aussie Permanent Resident visa—so I stepped nonchalantly out of the shadows so that Old Man Diapers could finally figure out where I was. I walked past him, quickly, casually admiring the artwork but staying out of his reach, spouting off a story about how my art history teacher had mentioned what an impressive catalog the Club had, "so I thought I'd come check it out, y'know?"

And, finally nearing the door, I high-tailed it out of there and we continued on our way to the next bar. But not before husband slipped, and accidentally did this to my foot:

I Know How Safe You Were Last Summer

2007-08-01T22:51:00.000+10:00

The following paragraphs come from the Transport Accident Commission (TAC) website:

"Warning for Motorcyclists from the Deputy Coronor: Before you buy - get a mechanical check. This will help to pick up any mechanical faults with the motorcycle. This warning from the Deputy Coroner came after a motorcyclist was killed just days after buying a second hand motorcycle with throttle and brake problems. The throttle became stuck in the wide open position, causing the bike to travel at excessive speed and the rider to lose control.

"Safe motorcycling tips wanted. You write it, we publish it. Get the latest tips from your fellow riders here. We've also organised them by topic so you can get directly to the info you're after. Submit your safety tips and stories. The best submissions are selected each month and receive $25 cash."

They're totally sucking people into chain letters! It's all like, "sEnD uS UR saFety tiPs or U wiLL DiE!!!"

And as if that weren't enough, they're bribing people with the promise of cash and publication. I totally get these kinds of emails from my grandma all the time--the kind of email forward that has to promise death, absolution, and cash, because the reader's bound to be a sucker for one of 'em.

The TAC has resorted to safety spam...tsk tsk!

Playa Hatin'

2007-07-28T17:54:00.000+10:00

Okay, okay, it's been like a week since I posted anything. But I needed time to cool down after that last post. I got really riled up about that one, and then caught all kinds of flack from my Aussie friends who were all like, "wow you sound angry, giiirl, why you all be hatin' on Oz n' shit?" (it didn't actually sound like that, because they can't sound black, especially when they try, but I try not to hold that against them...they've never seen black people outside of the "telly".)

But honestly folks, I don't hate Australia. I'm merely observing and recording in a spiteful manner. And to be honest I can do that from anywhere. Just ask my sister; if nothing around me is particularly bothersome, I'll make fun of her tattoos or pick on her boyfriend.

So in an attempt to make nice, I've compiled a brief list of things I've discovered here that could only exist, in all their true glory, in Australia--objects I shall truly miss...as soon as I get the fuck out of here.

1. Tim Tams.
Chocolate gizz you'd never spit out. Especially when it joins forces with tea or hot chocolate to become the Tim Tam Slam.

2. Berocca.
I always considered myself a formidable drinker, especially for my size and socio-economic status, but if not for all my practice before I moved here, Australians' drinking capacity would surely put me to shame. As they don't possess the cure-all combination of Excedrin and Emergen-C, husband introduced me to Berocca, in all its orange powered sweetness and brain cell-patching abilities. It gets me moving enough to get to work, functioning as well as can be expected, but sadly hasn't been improved enough to stop me from still being drunk at said job.

3. Really really tight jeans.
One winter my girlfriends and I back in New York were on an all-out quest for the perfect skinny jeans. H&M briefly carried like 20 pairs (sold out in one day) and went back to lame-o flares with washes that looked like you'd just slid down a loofah. I refused to buy Tsubis because they're like $400 in NYC and I'd thrown so much food at Tsubi-wearing anorexic fashion students on Fifth Avenue that I would've felt like a hypocrite.

The quest got so competitive that one friend refused to give up where she'd found her pair, in fear that we would all get the same ones. (After they sold out she then confessed they were from Urban Outfitters, but I have a major moral dilemma about those idiots anyway.)

Husband informed me that Melbourne is THE world capital of painted-on jeans, and much to my satisfaction, my friend Thom makes the perfect pair at a reasonable price. These bitches are so tight they make my Leona Edmiston stockings look like snow pants. My friend Benny and I have the same pair. He's like 6'6" so his are a foot longer...but same circumference...skinny ass hipsters.

Soooo, I promise from now on I will mix my likes with dislikes in an attempt to be a nicer person. I just can't promise any kind of healthy balance.

Walking Class Heroes

2007-07-18T18:17:00.000+10:00

This post was supposed to be about people who don't know how to walk.

New York has something like three times more people crammed into it than Melbourne, which has rightfully forced various unspoken rules as to how to walk down the sidewalk. The flow of pedestrian traffic mirrors that of car traffic:

1. Stay to the right.

2. Pretend you're a car and stay in your goddamn lane.

3. If you want to pull over and look at your map/answer your phone/masturbate, look before you slam into another person.

4. If you want to window-shop, fuck you tourist. You should have figured out what you wanted to buy online before you left Midtown. But you didn't, so there is a designated lane for DUMB, which is right alongside shop windows.

This all makes sense to me. But not to Australians. Even though it may make sense to them to mirror traffic, their instinct is telling them that maybe they should walk on the right, because it's the way God wanted it, but then something reminds them, "wait we do it backwards here mate" and then they get all confused and start dawdling and drooling and pretty soon I'm kicking their children and screaming "This is AMERICA, asshole!" Which it isn't, of course. Whatevs. They know what I mean.

But this isn't about that. Because in my extensive research, wanting to fairly represent the Australian opinion on the matter, I came across another organization lookin' out for the safety of its citizens:

The Pedestrian Council of Australia.

This shit's so exciting that even John Howard (that's the Prime Minister, for the Americans reading this) wrote a letter describing how he splooged a 'roo (man I wish that was a real Aussie phrase) when he heard the council was creating "Walk to Work Day". Well he didn't really, but here it is.

Walk to Work Day, for those of you who haven't fallen asleep yet, counted nearly 1,000 people walking to work that day, and there was an article entitled "Walking Class Heroes" about the event on page 45 of the Canberra City Chronicle.

Holy shit.

But back to safety. So enthusiastic was I over discovering this, I delved further, and realized that the members of the Pedestrian Council of Australia are much like the neighborhood watch alliance in Hot Fuzz and that they are a bit too consumed with the safety of pedestrians. When you click onto "Issues and Policy" I discovered that there may be some serious breaching of safety due to the ever-popular Segway:

as well as "How they Flout the Parking Laws at Manly". But again, I don't speak Australian. So don't ask me what the fuck that means.

Gravity-challenged Australians

2007-07-14T19:22:00.000+10:00

I swear officer, I haven't been drinking. I'm just really tired.

Pie Chart: Pies

2007-07-13T22:48:00.000+10:00

The polls are in!

Pies are a universal (read=Aussie) tradition, and this has nothing to do with apples folks. A pie is basic food, the people's food, and it is all a part of their convict tradition. See, the story goes way back to 1734, when one of the first Aussie convicts, Shane McBogan, was shipped to Victoria from London, for stealing a pewter AC/DC belt buckle. Whence he landed upon the New World, he had nary the skill for cultivating his own food, having been raised on curries, fish n' chips, and other foods kind to the people of stray teeth...hence was born the Aussie Pie.

The pie is a flaky dough encapsulating various forms of meat, the most common of which is The Meat Pie, in this poll defeating The Shepherds Pie (brought over from England) by a slim margin. Being always a proponent of the underdog, the Aussies now cherish the Cornish Pastie (no one likes the Corn person of England), and from there, they cultivated their own versions of "the greatest food ever invented that weren't just 'roo meat."

The winners:
1. Meat Pie
2. Shepherds Pie
3. Cornish Pastie
3. Steak & Curry Pie
4. Steak & Kidney Pie
5. Thai Chicken Pie
6. Asparagus, Sweet Corn & Cheese Pie
7. Beef & Vegemite Pie
8. Nachos Pie
9. Beef & Burgundy Pie
10. Cheese & Bacon Pie
11. Possum Pie
12. Marsupial Mash Pie

Awwwww shit!

2007-07-13T22:07:00.001+10:00

Australians really know how to turn a phrase. I'm not being sarcastic here. They've managed to take one cuss word and attribute it to all parts of speech and emotion. Here's an abridged glossary:

Safety is the new Fascism

2007-07-13T19:49:00.000+10:00

The thing about living in a Fascist State is that you get all these perks to keep you from remembering that you're living in a Fascist State. Okay so yeah, I live in the middle of Melbourne, Australia, for roughly half of what it cost me to live in my last apartment, in The Middle Of The Fucking Ghetto, Brooklyn, NYC, USA, Universe.

And yes, I get basic healthcare without even being a citizen, and get to crunch on these awesome painkillers that put Advil to shame. And when I step outside my swanky apartment building every morning, there is beautiful architecture and a kindly people:

I work as a designer at a job that doesn't exploit me, and the Fascist State makes my employers pay me decently and give me all these days off. And I never stay past 5:30pm.

ecs, wtf are you bitching about?

Safety town, that's what. And I'm here to set a few things straight.

Safety isn't cool. If you think safety is cool, then smoking doesn't look hot, the dudes from Easy Rider were pussies, and James Dean was a turd burglar.

For example: I recently started riding a ~~fixed gear bike~~ hipster-mobile to and from work every day. I have to wear a helmet. Husband makes me wear one, and if I don't, he threatens to sell my bike. You know why Husband makes me wear a helmet?

a: he has been conditioned from a life in Safety Town to be serious about it. (Fascist)

b: Because it's against the friggin' law not to. That's right, the Fascist State could take points off my driver's license if I don't, and at the very least, pull me over and fine me $50.

Now, I will say that I've grown to depend on wearing a goddamn helmet, even though I look like the mushroom dude from Mario Bros 3:

and that is because it is fucking dangerous to ride a bike through rush-hour traffic in Melbs. I have two theories about this, because I never felt in danger in NYC.

1. There aren't as many people in Melbourne, so cars think they're the only ones on the road.

2. They're driving on the wrong side of the road, so they're confused as to what to do or where to look. And they're Australian.

That will be my only concession to Safety Town. From here on out, I feel the need to prove to you, dear reader, how saturated this Australian culture is with signs, TV advertisements, billboards, and PSAs which all serve to prove that you don't know enough about yourself to look both ways before crossing the street. And henceforth you will pay 40% of your income in taxes to generate such gold as:

I don't read Australian so I can't figure out if they really don't like rollerbladers or if they just don't want gays around.

In case you didn't get that, please walk carefully. People are walking. Everywhere. All the time. Also, there are bikes.

Also, there are trams.

Also, there are cars.

And just like, be careful in the Safety Zone, yeah?