i heart the socceroos

Lucas Neill is a fox. Tim Cahill’s sleeve is amazing. Harry Kewell gets better looking the shorter his hair gets. Oh, and they can also play football.

These three players, and many others, make up the Australian Socceroos. I heart the Socceroos and only wanted good things for them as they headed to South Africa for the World Cup. Thankfully, I was without television coverage for the match against Germany, which I’m sure would have left me in tears (I was in Woodend, I didn’t even have a signal on my iphone. It was liberating…sort of.) I watched the Ghana match (but have blocked out the 25th minute and Harry’s red card) and was also up this morning to see Australia take on Serbia.

I stumbled from my bed, to my couch and prepared myself for an upset. As much as I wanted Australia to win and go through to the round of 16, I feared the worst. I think this cautious hope was symptomatic of the Australia v Italy match in 2006. I was in Fed Square with the rest of Melbourne watching that horrible game and still find it hard to talk about those last, terrible minutes of the match and that look on Neill’s face when he knew he’d given away a penalty that would secure Italy’s win.

But moving on. That was 2006 and this is 2010.

I kept the volume of my television down to a low roar, hoping I wouldn’t wake my neighbours. Turns out I didn’t have to worry. They were up. And since I know them to be German, I suspected they were biting their own nails while watching Germany take on Ghana. My suspicions were confirmed when I heard a cheer from beyond my lounge room wall and then promptly heard the SBS announcer declare that Germany had scored. But I digress.

Australia played well. They played very well. Cahill’s goal was stellar and Holman was inspired. If only Australia hadn’t taken such a beating from Germany during that first match (and then if only Germany had scored just a few more times against Ghana…thanks for NOTHING Germany!) and if only Kewell had been playing…but I could go on like this all night, so I’ll stop. Australia exited the 2010 World Cup on a high. It’s just sad to think that Neill, Cahill, Kewell, Schwarzer and the rest have probably seen their last World Cup. It’s too bad, I could have easily waited another 4 years to see them play football on the world’s stage. Good on ya, boys. And don’t forget, you’re all FOXES!!

julian at the palace

Julian was wearing red pants. Not many people can pull off red pants. It was a bold choice, but it worked. Of course, it helped that Julian was Julian Casablancas, basically the coolest human ever (well, in this blogger’s opinion, anyway).

So where was the lead singer of The Strokes while he was wearing these red pants, you may be wondering? Well, he was performing at the Palace Theatre as part of his Phrases for the Young solo tour (the album has been reviewed on this very blog).

After a delay of half an hour (but really, what self-respecting rock musician takes to the stage on time?) Julian appeared and the previously restless crowd went completely crazy for the charismatic singer – my sister and myself included.

The set list included songs from his album, obviously, but we were lucky enough to hear three Strokes songs, each sending the crowd into a frenzy of heaving energy. Something tells me The Strokes concert in July is going to be completely nuts.

A highlight for me was Julian’s acoustic rendition of You Only Live Once. It was completely mesmerizing. And while I’d hoped to hear The Lonely Island’s Boombox, the encore more than made up for it.

Yes, all too soon the encore was upon us and my sister and I screamed ourselves hoarse when we realised what Julian C was about to sing.

‘I wish it was Christmas today’ was originally sung by Jimmy Fallon and company on a terrific episode of Saturday Night Live quite a few years ago. When Julian Casblancas appeared on said program recently, he covered the song and it was even included as a bonus track on the US edition of Phrases. Having been fans of Jimmy’s version since hearing it, my sister and I were completely ecstatic to hear the opening riff being played by Julian’s band – we really hadn’t expected to hear it at all, since SNL unfortunately doesn’t air over here, and therefore it was the perfect end to a kick-arse concert.

Bring on The Strokes in July!

moving

Since leaving the family home some time ago, I’ve packed my possessions and moved eight times. Last weekend, I made it nine. (Don’t worry, I still proudly boast the 3054 postcode!)

Admittedly, some of those moves involved going overseas and I didn’t have to pack up ALL my possessions but let me tell you, it hardly makes a difference. Packing up your crap and moving is the same regardless of how much you’re packing or which country you’re doing it in. And it’s exhausting. There are movers to research and hire (if you move as often as I do trust me when I tell you I’d have no friends or family members speaking to me if I relied on them to get me from my old place to my new place with my heavy furniture and boxes of books). There’s mail to redirect, utilities to be cancelled, paperwork to be filled in, and bonds to be paid. Oh, and let’s not forget the process of finding boxes to pack your stuff in, and the packing itself.

The weekend of the move is usually full of anxiety (will the movers find parking close enough to the house/flat? will they wreck my stuff? can they fit everything through the new doorways?), physical pain and thoughts of ‘what the hell am I going to do with all these boxes now?’ ‘are the neighbours going to be too noisy/quiet?’ ‘why do I need eleventy-five keys to get into my flat?', ‘where the hell are the bins?!’ and 'why, dear God, do I have so MUCH STUFF!!'. But once that last box is unpacked and you can sit on your couch in your new home with a glass of wine, it all seems worth it. A new environment can do wonders and you tell yourself you’ll never, EVER move again. (But then the lease expires and thoughts of a new abode creep into your brain, which has conveniently forgotten the trauma of the last move.)

I went through that trauma and now find myself in a lovely new flat in a block that definitely has a Melrose Place feel about it. I can see palm trees from my living room window (where this very piece is being written) and the neighbours aren’t afraid to smile when you pass each other. The distance to Rathdowne Village and Piedimonte’s is about equal and the tram is just around the corner. The flat itself is modern, has no carpet and the shower pressure is GREAT! I never, EVER want to move again.

kill your darlings

One of Australia’s latest literary journals, Kill Your Darlings, has taken its name from a quote attributed to William Faulkner. As stated by the journal’s editor Rebecca Starford, the phrase means ‘to ruthlessly cut out that which doesn’t serve a purpose in one’s writing, no matter how sentimental one feels about it’. And thus, I was hooked. The striking title and cover had me at ‘hello’ but as soon as I read about the meaning of the journal’s title, and its vision - to create literature that demands attention - I felt very happy that I had been in a buying mood that fruitful afternoon at Carlton’s Readings.

New fiction, essays, commentary and reviews. This is what the content promises and each section has been a delight to read. I particularly enjoyed Clementine Ford’s piece on internet dating, ‘Love in a LOL-ed Climate’, and ‘Talk Derby to Me’, which is Georgia Gowing’s ode to roller derby (something I wish I was brave enough to be awesome at!). The fiction offerings are just as thought-provoking and here I want to give a special shout-out to ‘Theories of Relativity’ by Chris Womersley. Just, wow.

I can’t wait for the next edition…make sure you get your hands on a copy.

hazel curtis: fear doctor

Fear. We let it run our lives. We all have a fear of something. I'm TERRIFIED of popping champagne corks. (What if one of them hits you in the face and you LOSE AN EYE?!!) A girl I work with is scared of fish and another can't be in the same room as a rubber band. We all have fears.

So how do we go about getting rid of these fears? The answer, I've now realised, is Hazel Curtis.



I was lucky enough to attend a session of Hazel's last night and can now say that through her three H program - 'hear' the fear, 'hold' the fear, 'hiss' the fear - I am no longer scared of champagne corks, immigrants, climate change and growing old (well, the last one still scares me, but now less so).

I would highly recommend attending a Hazel session for yourself - but hurry because she is in great demand and only available until March 14. (Oh, and watching Hazel and Jimmy, her sweet assistant, interact with each other is simply wonderful!)

a (sort of) ghost story

One of the brilliant things about living in Carlton's north is that when one is having a night out on the town, whether it be dining, dancing or movie-watching, home is merely a cheap cab or tram ride away.

And so last night, after saying farewell to some friends (who had to trek to their south-of-the-river homes), I caught the number 8 tram home. It was a pretty chilly night so I was happy that I didn't have to wait long for the tram to come and collect me. Now, for those not in the know, the number 8 tram goes down Lygon Street and therefore runs parallel to Melbourne Cemetery. Usually, I don't pay the cemetery much attention when I'm walking home because usually, it's during the day. At night, I much prefer to catch the 96.

Anyway, this night, I found myself hopping off the tram and walking down Lygon which would then take me to my street. As I wandered down the road, with my iphone playing some tunes, I glanced over at the cemetery, which was on the other side of the road. Now, I'm known for having TERRIBLE eye-sight (I'm short-sighted) but I tend to always wear my glasses when I'm walking home alone at night, you know, so I can see where I'm going. So with my bespectacled eyes, I looked at the cemetery. And I SWEAR TO GOD I SAW SOMETHING THAT DIDN'T LOOK HUMAN!

In fact, it looked like a tall...thing...with a face that was remarkably similar to the face from the Scream films. You know, this one:



Thinking that my eyes must be WAY bad, I glanced over my shoulder and looked again towards the cemetery. And, again, I SAW THAT HORRIBLE FACE!

Well, I freaked the SHIT OUT and had to stop myself from running all the way home. I has shivers running up and down my spine and I figured that even if that thing wasn't actually there, then my mind wasn't in a good place. That's a lose/lose situation in my book.

So, yeah, that's my ghost story. I swear I'm taking the 96 home from now on.

grandmaster flash

I didn't quite realise that the Australia Day long weekend was, in fact, not a long weekend until I was asked at work if I was taking the Monday off. Yadda, yadda, yadda and I had myself a four-day long weekend. Bonus.

On Australia Day eve, I headed (with my peeps - sister included and yes, she made me write that) to the Espy to see Grandmaster Flash. GRANDMASTER FLASH!!! The excitement had built all weekend, even after I rang the Espy to find out what time Grandmaster F would be taking to the stage and they said 12.30am. (One half of me wanted to scream 'WHAT? That's the NEXT DAY!' while the other half of me thought 'yes, I could sooo handle being nineteen again, easy'.)

Anyway, back to the Espy. In honour of the night, I was wearing my hoop earrings and my arse was doing its best JLo impersonation in my tight jeans. After a few drinks and a LOT of crowd watching, it was time for the festivities to begin. And it was awesome.

He scratched like no one I'd ever heard scratch before. He played old school hip hop, Aussie hip hip, tracks from the west and east coast. We gave California our love,got right, jumped around, gave our love to the people in the front row, our train went off the tracks and we rode with the D-R-E motherfucker!

Yeah, good times.

closing time at gerald's

Gerald's Bar is quite the institution in Carlton. It received much attention last year, and with good reason. It is the best bar ever. I won't list all of Gerald's many attributes, those that know it, don't need convincing of its greatness, and those that don't know of it, well, we probably don't want you there anyway.

I have spent many an evening sipping wine with the friendly staff and great friends. Although there is one particular night that comes to mind when I think of Gerald's.

Now, I don't often stay there until closing (a very respectable 11 pm) except for this one night. A friend and I were running our mouths of with catch-up gossip when we noticed an ominous silence had descended. Usually, Gerald's music cannot be faulted - it's one of the things I'd have put on the many attributes list had I made it - but suddenly, nothing was playing. I looked at my watch and noticed it was very close to eleven. The bar was quite crowded but no one looked to be moving. I felt sorry for the bar staff. It must be very difficult to clear out such a beloved watering hole. I know that when guests have overstayed their welcome at my place, I tend to get slightly cranky.

But Gerald's Bar comes equipped with professional staff. They know how to deal with a problem such as this. After a considerable pause in music (just long enough for people to actually notice that no music was playing) the soft, haunting strings of The Godfather theme started to play. I then noticed the lighting seemed a little darker, the faces of my fellow patrons seemed a little more sinister. My palms felt clammy as I considered the possibility that someone in the bar had a hit on them. I told my friend it was time to leave. I think most other people at Gerald's followed our cue.

As we walked quickly home, I stopped, looked back and said 'Bravo Gerald, bravo.' They know how to make sure closing time is exactly that.

tram story #4

Women and handbags.

They go together like gin and tonic. Pancakes and maple syrup. Movies and popcorn. We carry around handbags everyday. They carry everything we hold dear. The best handbags have many, many compartments so we have easy access to mobiles, wallets, tram tickets.

Good. Glad we've got that sorted. So what I want to know is how come, on TWO SEPARATE OCCASIONS, have I seen women STICK THINGS IN THEIR BRAS INSTEAD OF THEIR HANDBAGS??!!! These same women, I took the time to notice, were carrying HUGE handbags. And what, there was no room so they had to stick their iPod shuffles and mobiles into their underwear? WTF?!

So, yeah. Handbags, ladies. Use them. They like it. It's their destiny.

my new favourite website/blog #2

I have a love/hate relationship with facebook - as I'm sure most people do. I therefore completely appreciate this blog. It's pretty hilarious. Although it does make me worry slightly about the population of this planet.

(Oh, and while I'm quite a big Twilight fan, I quite enjoyed this post.)

the baby-sitter's club 2.0

I LOVED the Baby-sitters Club series when I was younger. It was my first obsession. I collected the books, the super specials, day-dreamed about moving to Connecticut (that's with a 'c' before the first 't' you know) and even wrote Ann M. Martin a letter (and almost passed out from excitement when I got a response). Oh, and I also sat through the god-awful films and to this day, the theme song just WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!

Well, I can now look to 2010 with awe and excitement as Scholastic plans to reissue the first two titles of the series - introducing Kristy, Claudia, boy-crazy Stacey and Mary Anne (I wrote those names from memory!!) to a new generation of young girls. While slight revisions are planned, I'm sure the series will be just as fun and exciting as it was the first time around.

Oh, and if that wasn't enough BSC excitement for you, check out this blog - it's all about Claudia's crazy fashion!