i’m intellectual whore

A currently structured personal essay on a particular plague in my mind. And I say structured, because I had to submit it as a feature article for uni, and I’d run out of ideas for anything else to write about. That, and I was neck-deep in procrastination.

Am thinking of tinkering with this and making it more personalised for submission to Frankie. That said, I have been shunted before despite one initial interest in my pieces of work. ONE! Email me back again please!

I wonder if Benjamin Law considers himself an intellectual whore at times? I wouldn’t be surprised considering the profound number of readers gleaning themselves with his wisdom every time Frankie comes out. Oh Benjamin, if only your sexuality did not pervade me. We could be happy, you and I..

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I’m An Intellectual Whore

The ability to lace words and ideas into an art form is steeped in seduction, for there is no denying the sexuality infused in the mere exchange of conversation. It is a universal concept to be sure, where participants are entranced by the quixotic allure of another’s philosophic thought. There is a shared interest between the two and the journey to an intellectual commonality is pursued, a process and an exploration towards a truth. But the other night, I listened to his voice at the other end of my mobile phone connection, and whose ideas I had come to worship and handle with as much fragility as my own vulnerable nature, and I quietly asked myself, at what cost?

When Woody Allen published the book Getting Even, the intellectual whore was born. Termed to describe the woman hired to philosophise and talk politics with a man married to an unintelligent specimen, the Whore of Mensa brought an intriguing antithesis to the notion of the streetwalker. According to Allen, this woman would be highly educated, often found pencilling ‘Yes that’s so true!’ in the margins of a Kantian textbook, quoting the psychosexualities of Freudian proportions, and spectacles pushed back on by the carefully extended forefinger. She would always be in a spot of financial trouble, hence the whoring implication for quick financial relief. A woman would possess such knowledge as to lure her pursuers into a world of mythology and futurist thinking, garnering such intelligence so as to be respected on a psychological level, if not a dismissively sexual one. Men were entranced by their bought moments of philosophical thought, yet were happy to return home to their doting, often less-educated and less-articulate wives. And so it is asked: what balance is this?

There appears to be a femininity in the pursuit of thought, despite the dominance of males in the sociological field. It is supposed that women were considered second-class citizens, to be seen but never heard, but it seems that this mild form of oppression is laced in an intriguing form of seduction. Indeed, Woody states this very plainly with his Whore of Mensa, where the denouncement of knowledge in a woman is on par to the social taboo of being a prostitute. An intellectual woman is commoditised, to be used and thrown away until the next desire for thought.

The extent to this engagement is dependent on money. “For three bills, you got the works: a thin Jewish brunette would pretend to pick you up at the Museum of Modern Art, let you read her master’s, and get you involved in a screaming quarrel at Elaine’s over Freud’s conception of women” chirps the Kaiser in Allen’s story. This woman of thought is a tool, cheapened by money, even though the man is submissive throughout the experience.

Such a person still exists in modern times. While financial transactions may at times continue to support the intellectual exchange between two often lonely individuals, the relationship has evolved into one that is free from financial stress. There is a contrast of commonality and disparity between two friends, for example, where one is the wide-eyed underling to the Flaubert quoting superior. In some ways, this has played out in teenage culture, and starkly so in the TV series Dawson’s Creek, which followed the lives of four small town teenagers. Joey is her best friend Dawson’s intellectual whore, called upon when required and dismissed in the presence of physical urges offered by his girlfriend Jen. He is the underling, she the superior, and yet her working class background underscores her intellect and relegates her to a similar social standing as Mensa’s whore. What is interesting, however, is how teenagers as a whole are a growing secular society, where their exchange of ideas is as stable as their hormonal sexual patterns. Such parallels inevitably lead to the notion of promiscuity, and again, we find that knowledge is an alluring, sexualised commodity where someone’s ideas and philosophies are borrowed to benefit the intellectual thirst.

In many ways, the underling revels in the joys offered by their intellectual prostitutes’ ideologies and theologies, and yet find it difficult to define their own way of thinking. They choose to steal etches of individuality, bought and harvested from their encounters with the highly intelligent and highly unaware. Such ideas are hybridised to fit their own mentalities and emotions of the day, absorbed like a drug to a feverish addict until they are replete for the day. They buy and take from multiple partners without any qualms.

It is somewhat alarming that on the social networking juggernaut that is Facebook, a group is devoted to this class of intellectually unassured citizens. Catergorised under ‘self-help’, the group description asks, “if a person is smart and is articulate, do you forget that they might not be the prime physical specimen and think they are the reason for the sun and moon?”, before launching into the ever-enlightening backhand of “have you ever been turned on by deep and engaging conversation and yet had no physical interest in the person?”. Just like prostitute is frowned upon, ‘intellectual whores’ are considered on par with their physical counterparts. Of course, it is all laughs and satirical joy, but there is the undeniable notion of sympathy dueling with disapproval. It comes with being intellectually promiscuous, at least as far as so defined by the group.

There is a social difficulty in balancing the physical features of a person with their intelligence, a notion manifested in the stereotype of the Nerd. It seems that while a person may be perfectly capable of developing a philosophy, this does not necessarily translate them to aesthetically pleasing citizens. Is it questionable then, that this particular mode of intimacy is by no means a substitute for that other tryst?

There is an overwhelming desire that underscores this ‘use and abuse’, or ‘treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen’ mentality. In many ways, the desire for knowledge and new ways of thinking is embedded in human DNA, for without thought, how is there progress? The near animalistic nature of desire is what drives this person, a purchaser of thoughts, onwards in a journey to satisfy their perpetual crave for new philosophies, as a necessity of modern existentialism. It is this thirst for knowledge and thought that far exceeds the capacities of fulfillment by any offerings of physical sexual rapture, regardless of how such a thirst may be laced in sexual qualities. The very idea behind intellectual promiscuity is philosophy, which in its most basic form is ‘philo’ – lover – and ‘sophia’ – of knowledge, and it is this ongoing process that sits, perpetually unsatisfied so long as there are ideas in existence and philosophies to pursue and discover.

But here comes the crux – explained with the ease of example with Dawson’s Creek. The tension between Dawson and Joey became a romantic relationship of such enamour and purity in the pursuit of thought, that it eventually imploded, lashings of distrust and personal taboo seeped beneath their perfect white sheets. Their love of knowledge could not exceed their conflicting admiration for each other. Behind their carefully disguised philosophies lay Love’s Puppet, driving them apart instead of closer together. It is this conflict of interest that complicates the barter, and both parties are ultimately losers. They trade each other for other partners after being found out, and leave the past where it began: in the past to be hastily forgotten however deeply the experience may have left on their perceptions of similar with other partners.

To consider myself an ‘intellectual whore’ is often a discomforting thought. Despite such misgivings, and considering my current situation with a man of four and twenty and his relationship with a girl six years his junior, I have come to accept my role as a provider and entertainer of thoughts. It is at the expense of my own romantic worth, but I happily take my momentary hours of conversation, connected by the extent and capability of coverage afforded by our telephone service providers. For the moment, I am quite content with the ideas and thoughts that leave me satiated in the twilight hours of night.

And now the question begs: what becomes of the intellectual whore? They seek out innumerable ideas, sleeping with them, trying out different positions to see which ones work most effectively in reaching their intellectual climax, only to leave them in the morning, gathering the fragments of these memories, freshly used and abused, and perhaps guilt on behalf of both parties, more so on the soul of the whore. This is the realisation that one has screwed over not just their partner in crime, but themselves. It sinks like the flurried haze that laces the initial encounter – minus the wide-eyed enthusiasm and the naivety possessed by the wide-eyed school girl, and heavy with a growing dissatisfaction and the indescribable desire for something deeper than a satisfying thought. From here, they move on into the morning, hunting the next intellectual fix so that they may amend, if not justify the one before.

commercial whore vs. indie kid

The below is a rant that has been niggling the back of my mind these past few weeks. It is difficult for me to hold back any longer, therefore I give you the following. I’m aiming to get this published in either Frankie (top issue this bi-month. Now for another excruciating two month wait for the new one) or the UTS student magazine Vertigo.. *fingers crossed*

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Commercial Whore vs. Indie Kid:
Why I Should Be Allowed To Channel Both

These past few weeks have been rather traumatic for me. I’ve been verbally abused on my beliefs, told multiple times that I cannot be one thing as well as the other, as well as financially molested by someone who seems to make love to his own dance routines. It is not quite the experience I’d recommend to anyone suffering a potential existential crisis. And by that I mean the musical kind (because we all know that Foucault is so post-pomo).

I am a passionate supporter of independent and ‘alternative’ music. I have been on a 3-month binge of The Cure (Bloodflowers is splendid and Fascination Street live is like the Karma Sutra in aural form), whilst my current listening buffet consists of Gotye, The Frames, Marianne Faithfull, Brendan Benson, The Basics, Explosions In The Sky, and George Harrison. I am on my way to quoting exactly which Beatles song appeared on which Beatles album (Strawberry Fields Forever appeared on, umm… Magical Mystery Tour?), and I got so excited when I heard The Cure were touring that I called my friend who was on exchange in Sweden to tell her I got us GA tickets (GA stands for ‘general admission’ for you unversed music punters). The amount of money I spend on CDs every month is enough to feed a colony of emaciated children. I believe that iPods and their artsy fartsy coloured dancing silhouettes should consider self-imploding into a much more marketable display of ‘we fucked you over hard!’ (see what you did to those Swedish Caesars Palace!). That means I have never owned an MP3 player, which possibly relegates me to a social standing similar to turd-dom. I get excited every time I hear a new band on Fbi and 2SER, meaning I gleefully implode whenever my mate’s songs get played.

But here is the crux: I watch Idol religiously. And I’m paying to see Justin Timberlake on the first day of November this year. Insert Hitchcockian Psycho shower scene music score here. By admitting these fatal aspects of my personal inclinations, my friends and colleagues run screaming, flinging EP remnants and the Spice Girls on vinyl in their wake, thereby effectively forfeiting any musical respect they ever garnered for me in the first place. The question is, WHY?

One thing I’d like to ask: what is wrong with Idol? And by that I do not mean to open the floodgates of an inexorable damning (I’m so witty) to a hell where Avril Lavigne attempts to skateboard in circular motions whilst chanting “Hey hey, you you” to the tune of Hanson’s ‘Mmmbop’. You cannot deny the indescribable appeal of the Idol concept – unlike Big Wanking Brother, this is actually entertaining. Is it so wrong to look forward to it every year, to guffaw at my race’s inability to breed Idol-esque musicians (Asian Pride represent!), and become enamoured at the very rare though utterly satisfying moments of radness, like last year when the oddly intriguing yet ever so talented Bobby Flynn took the stage?

Being martyred as a result of my ‘Faustian’ ways has afforded me some interesting observations. How much more anal can we get when it comes to differentiating ourselves from ‘the mainstream’? Are we so fearful of becoming tinged in any shape or form by this Machiavellian monster that we call ‘commercialisation’ that it’s made us think in two-tonal dimensions? Does that not defeat the purpose of music? Does music not question our social ideologies and perceptions, whilst simultaneously allowing a certain openness to interpretation?

As much as we proclaim our allegiance to ‘independent’ artists and freely slap on the criticisms regarding the ‘lack of musicianship’ vested in Justin Timberlake and Bon Jovi (for no one can deny the aural pull of Livin’ on A Prayer), the fact of the matter is that the nuances between the mainstream and independent-slash-alternative is blurring. Festivals are popping up left, right, and centre thereby rendering the average punter both confused and broke at time of printing, and they’re all promote one thing – music. Why are we quick to annihilate the promotion of music with our nostril-flaring elitism? Is there something wrong with signing up to both ticketing lists for the Spice Girls and the Falls Festival? And how long can your new favourite band stay truly yours? Sharing is caring – have all those hours of illegal downloading taught you nothing! Music spreads the love, therefore appreciate said love!

My point is – music needs balance. If all you have to listen to is perpetually good and damn near orgiastic music, then what have you got to define it with? This is what we call definition through opposition – there is no north without south, there is no good without bad, and there is no splendid ear candy without the mainstream shit that is polluting the Kyle and Jackie O show (I liken the listening experience to that of O-zone’s ‘Dragostea-di-dei’ – resistance is futile). With the exception of Rihanna-fucking-ella-ella-ella-eh (she had better get out of my aural range before I attempt her surgical removal from the music scene), why should I be crucified for opening my ears to such readily proclaimed examples of banality? If you don’t like it, then don’t listen to it.

Meanwhile, I’m going back to my weekly Sundays and Mondays ‘Idoling’. And I reserve the right to listen to Britney Spears in between my nightly dosage of Mogwai and Lo-tel – everyone else can stay grumpy and discombobulated.

lullaby

…and by that I mean The Cure variety, not the Shawn Mullins kind (although, catchy song). No I am not a self-proclaimed emo, and please do not stir me into some form of justification that will be thinly disguised as non-sensical rambling. For your information Robert Smith is a musician, and not all musicians angst away with their borrowed guitars.

I have decided that my writing does not possess a voice. It is the type of prose which attempts to carve its own path of distinction, of originality and ‘flair’ (frackin’ wanky assessment criteria), yet ends up in a spluttering heap of stolen expressions, feeble emulations and spluttering impressions of all writers I’ve idolised and loved.

Which I think is part of the reason why I find myself sifting through the photos of said writers (or rather, just the one) via their Facebook profiles like a voyeur of sorts; peering into the unknown world, which on the outskirts seems to mirror my own and yet beneath the surface, scratches the realities of a different world. Different, not wrong.

I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I look at his pictures (ooh ahh, it’s a he!), see the remnants of his childhood upbringings laced in Chinese tradition, visible in the Poloroid-imbued faces of his family. I study his siblings, whom are no doubt equally intelligent, articulate, and perhaps more perceptive than he is. It amazes me how much human beings can accomplish when forcefully removed from their immediate surroundings. Coerced into making a new life, and for this particular one, making the choice of pursuing the arts world in order to discover the perfect way to express himself and find truth. To quote Flaubert: ‘Of all lies, art is the least untrue’.

But of course, I am making presumptions. And I am neck-deep in airy fairy post-modern wank (damn stream-of-consciousness prose!) as a result of my insomnia, so I will try to get to the point.

The question, I suppose, is: how much do you need to be a writer? How much time, how much emotion, euphoria, determination, creativity (if any at all), focused observation without lacking the ability to think broadly, criticism, and most importantly, how much life do you need? What makes a writer? What makes the self-indulgent art that they immerse themselves in so important to others? And is it truly self-indulgent? Do writers scramble for their audience’s approval? Do expressionists?

Obviously these are all questions I should be answering myself, but I am in a thick state mind now (yes, have dense head), so I shall settle for pondering.

Other news:
– Met the lead singer Kele of Bloc Party. Photo, signed ticket stub, and evidence of a so-ecstatic-I-feel-trippy moi is accessible via my Facebook photos. Have now concluded that myself and my close-knit gig posse are all connected to Kele. Me and another friend met him, one hugged him right before she was pushed out from the front of the barrier at Splendour In The Grass, and the other saw him on a Sydney Bus. It’s fate!
– Also saw The Cure about a fortnight ago: came out of the Sydney Entertainment Centre deaf for four days a.k.a. titinnus freak out and it is a SHIT venue. But worry not – my ears are still good!
Masters in Media Practice is 70% international students from China which has me seriously pondering the usefulness of a degree to such students (journalism does not exist in China full stop, bold, underlined, capitals, neon flashing lights, spruiker), as well as my own usefulness.
Arctic Monkeys are still serious GOLD.
– Have started my Girlfriend internship. Am now a gung-ho online content producer for the next year or so (for one day a week! It was initially a three week trial, but I must’ve done something astounding because I am now signed on for the next 365 days. JOY!! Ooh sexy CV, uh-huh)
– 21st Birthdays have become frighteningly abundant. Am now engrossed in my own multi-paged (and multi-dimensional) proposal for my pending 21st shindig
– Never underestimate the power of multiple half hours indulging in productive time consumption via Dictionary.Com and Thesaurus.Com.
Dawson’s Creek is gold for expanding vocabulary

god put a smile upon your face

I’m listening to Coldplay for the first time in a long time. I remember their gig way back on 27 June 2006 – one year ago, actually, where I became the somewhat reluctant recipient of a spare ticket to, though I did not know it at the time, a beautiful cacophony and display of musicianship (in the truest sense of the word) by the quietly spoken and utterly ethereal talent that is Chris Martin. What has me taken in so many indescribable ways, is that this particular song seems to imbue in me a kind of wild abandon, a visceral impact, which I suppose is the whole purpose of music, really – I wrote a gig review on it via MySpace (oh back in the day Lol), which can be accessed here.

Anyhoo, I’m sitting at home for yet another Saturday night pondering the notion of writing and keeping a blog. Most people write about the nuances in the everyday lives, weaving a kind of epic narrative around the presupposed idiosyncrasies of their world, thinly disguised as a prime form of self-indulgence. Having said that, I don’t deny that what I’m doing right this moment is self-indulgent.. I mean, we all aspire for our 15 minutes of fame, and really, is there no better way to do it than through a blog? Or MySpace/YouTube.. such is the current culture that we live in. We hoist ourselves upon a pedestal in our own minds because we want to be recognised. We’re mortally afraid of being insignificant, so we do all we can to spread our legacy by any means possible (a somewhat related tangent: check out this week’s The Essay by Larry Buttrose in the Spectrum section via the brick that is SMH today – sorry, I can’t find the link to it), and to preserve it through any means.

What I wonder is why people write about certain things in their lives. I suppose the things that they deem important, of course. If it were up to me, I’d write about the people in my life, who I love, admire, am jealous of, those who stir such a feeling of frustration within me that the only way to release it is to write it all down. But that’s the crux – the whole point of keeping a blog is to write a diary with the knowledge that it’s being read by third parties. You write with almost the intention that it WILL be read by someone other than you.

Which is why most of my thoughts take the form of emails to each of those people in my lives. In emails, comments, random text messages, letters, gifts, phone calls. Communication is what it comes down to. I mean, of course, it’d be easier to write about all the things I aspire to be and all my insecurities and fears in a blog so that it saves me having to repeat myself to certain people. But the fact of the matter is, I’ve realised that some things don’t need to be posted up for all the world to see. There are matters that are private and serve no real interest to the voyueristic society in which we live.

I’m chuckling at myself as I’m writing this, because my profession really serves to air out all those truths and opinions that people may have – ‘expose’ the nuances and idiosyncrasies and, at times, hypocrasies of some individuals. About a year ago, I would’ve been all for exposing the evils of the world and certain individuals – but I am different person now. More learned, weathered, wiser if anything. But I guess when that time comes, when I find myself wrestling personally with that old ‘conflict of interest’ debate, it will come and I’ll deal with it when it does. And while I am fully aware that my profession has its own contradictions (just like any other profession), I vow to guard my own privacy for as long as I can.

I think what it comes down to though, is what we choose to make significant in our lives, what we hold most dear. And so to quote Justin Heazlewood in this month’s issue of Frankie (No. 18, Jul/Aug 2007, p.108):

“My emotional intelligence decides that [life] is better spent writing, gigging, and loving my family and friends… I ride through the muck with a shield of quiet concern, a sword of wit and creativity on a very wonky horse of metaphors.”

But enough with the rambling and existential ponderings – I’m hungry…

P.S. A small thing to keep in mind: subjectivity reigns.

Live Earth gig review + existential crisis #87

I banged out a gig review of Live Earth and sent all 1104 words (they’d definitely have to edit it down to about 700 words – it’s impossible editing your own work) to street press mag the Drum Media with the request and thanks that if deemed worthy, the review would be published in the upcoming issue. Now I read a fairly mediocre review in my copy of said issue of the Drum, critiquing an event that, despite its commercial nature, did not really cover the critiques that came with reviewing.

I feel a profound sense of inadequacy, possibly due to my ability to be over-anxious when it comes to not achieving what I’ve set out to do. That coupled with my present anxiety over not hearing any response from USYD about my Masters application, which will eventuate into an overwhelming (and unnecessary) sense of worthlessness means that I am one very tightly wounded individual right now.

But of course, this is just me feeling wounded at not being published so really, don’t listen to me. Such is the self-indulgence and narcissism that comes with blogging YAY.

My review is below for you to make up your own mind.

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LIVE EARTH – 07.07.07

With climate change warm in the air, the day was not without a sense of trepidation as the cream of the Australian music crop came together to raise awareness on this most pressing issue in our modern world. I mean, with Al Gore’s stamp of approval, any excuse for a concert right?

An Aboriginal performance paid homage to the nation’s indigenous roots before Blue King Brown opened the bill with an energetic set to wake the early Saturday morning punters trickling into the Oval A and B sections. There was a little more action in the stadium when Toni Collette and The Finish took the stage. Now I haven’t always been a fan of Ms Collette, save for her performance in Muriel’s Wedding, but her band wasn’t half bad. Despite the highlight being her cover of T. Rex’s Children of the Revolution, she carried a firm stage presence. Her songs failed to stir any particular interest in me however – blandness reigned.

The epic food lines at the stalls scattered around the innards of the stadium had me clutching my poor excuse for a pizza as I ran to catch the remnants of Sneaky Sound System. Bridging the gap between indie and mainstream, they made the most of their measly twenty-five minute set, momentarily transforming the stadium into a club house, albeit a very open spaced one. Soon after, The Ghostwriters performed a solid set as Rob Hirst took the stage, unleashing original songs and a classic Midnight Oil number, When The Generals Talk.

Paul Kelly got the crowd going with a gorgeous rendition of From Little Things, Big Things Grow as Missy Higgins and John Butler took the stage earlier than scheduled to support the man himself – a definite highlight. Soon after, Eskimo Joe donned their pretentious mainstream coats and took the stage with yet another lack-lustre and tightly rehearsed set, opening with crowd-pleaser From The Sea and ending with the commercial earworm that is Black Fingernails, Red Wine. In a set riddled with new tracks (hate to break it to you boys, but a little Sweater every now and then won’t tarnish those skinny jeans of yours), frontman Kav Temperley renounced London Bombs as a political song. But the political nature of the event itself was already tangible in the air. Regardless, the punters soaked it in and onward we swayed.

The darling of the Australian music scene Missy Higgins bounded on the stage for the second time that day, shooting off tracks from her new record, intercepting The Wrong Girl and Where I Stood with sing-a-long renditions of The Special Two and Scar as her gentle though formidable stage presence was felt. John Butler Trio took the stage, sending the crowd into a dancing frenzy as he punched out a solid performance of Zebra before riffling off Funky Tonight and an undeniably joyous Better Than. He spoke to the audience of looking after Mother Earth (as if we needed reminding) before launching into Treat Yo Mama with lute in tow and a mind-blowing drum solo by percussionist Michael Barker.

The inexorable juggernaut that is Wolfmother unleashed a solid and tight set to a somewhat unworthy crowd. One punter suggested the lack of enthusiasm to the way in which moshing generated heat, and that such refrain would serve as an example to the cause. Indeed, it seemed that green was definitely the taste of the day as Andrew Stockdale held up his double-necked guitar proclaiming, ‘We used just one tree to make two guitars!’ much to the puzzled punters.

In what may very well have been his only gig of the year, tourist Jack Johnson strolled onto the stage with a certain humility and laid-back attitude before strumming an almost crowd-led rendition of Times Like These. Visibly amused by such antics, Mr Johnson teased the audience with ‘I bet you know the words to this next one’ as the opening chords of The Horizon Has Been Defeated guaranteed instant transportation to a tropical island of punter choice. Interspersing older tracks with his newer ones, the crowd was giddy with excitement as they sang along to Gone, a track unfortunately made famous by the ubiquitous Black Eyed Peas.

The screens on either side of the stage occupied the time between sets, interlacing short films that pushed the climate change and water/energy/oil/methane-saving message via Cate Blanchett, Will Ferrell and videos of the eternally annoying Rihanna. Signs brought by the audience, ranging from the hilarious ‘Jack Johnson, have my GREEN babies’ to the downright clever ‘I HEART energy efficient LAMP’, were projected onto said screens for amusement. Then Peter Garrett took the stage to introduce recently reformed headliners Crowded House. Punters cheered for the former Midnight Oil frontman as he put his own green two cents into the bill, telling the crowd that climate change was the biggest issue affecting modern society before dropping the Rudd factor as the crowd shuffled in discomfort. It was almost sad to see a man once revered as rock royalty seemingly weighed down by the political agendas of his party.

Then Crowded House took the stage as the crowd threw their adoration in screams and applause, and let’s face it, tonight was all about them. Neil Finn has become a man one year short of fifty and definitely not one short of rocking out, as he greeted the crowd with a genuine happiness spreading through the lines on his face. And with that familiar opening riff of Locked Out, we were overwhelmingly assured of Crowded House as they once were, at least as much as they are without the late Paul Hester. There was definitely no denying the absence of the drummer that was, but this did not deter the crowd’s raw enthusiasm for the band that formed a big part of the ‘soundtrack to our lives’. Shooting off tracks with a grandiose sing-a-long of Fall At Your Feet and Don’t Dream It’s Over, as well new record offering Silent House, the audience was brimming with nostalgic euphoria, grins and cheers inescapable. The gimmick-free power outage of the tyred backdrop of lights during an ironic Four Seasons In One Day provided a poetic touch to the night; ‘I guess they’re trying to save energy’ replied a surprised Mr Finn. The entire bill took to the stage, including a child-rearing John Butler, to bow out the night with Weather With You, before a Neil Finn-led Better Be Home Soon during the encore.

And so it was, a day (and night) of environmentally friendly and positive green energy as weary punters trudged toward the bus queues and toward Central Station by foot, their heads filled with Orwellian energy saving tactics.

i refuse to procrastinate…

…by writing a blog for the first time in over 45 days. Perhaps more, perhaps less. My calculations are off.

I’ve logged into Facebook for the umpteenth time and nothing has changed and I seriously cannot be screwed wall-whoring anyone at this point in time.

I am functioning on about two and half hours of sleep. I went to bed at 5AM this morning finishing a 3000 word draft for my Crime Fiction class where my tutor has a decidedly stupid vendetta against me.

Right now I am working on my 1500 word travel piece for Creative Non Fiction. It is due Wednesday afternoon which is in about 36 hours. I am also meant to be working on my International Communication essay which aspires to be 3000 words in length and of a Credit variety. Obviously this will not happen. I am completely fucked.

Which is why I’ve begun YouTubing Teeny Little Super Guy and Rove’s interview with Elmo, along with Gumby. I have spent countless hours on Wikipedia researching the British Monarchy via Elizabeth I, the French Monarchy via Marie Antoinette, and tomorrow night I may move onto the Russian Monarchy via Tsar Nicholas II before it fell to revolution in 1917. Not to mention countless games of online Monopoly with the only other insomniac I know…

Some updates (apologies for being a self-indulgent turd whose prose has completely died in the arse):

– I’ve discovered the brilliance of Dappled Cities Fly
– I’m applying for Masters in Media Practice at the University of Sydney for their semester two intake because I’ve suddenly realised that I do not want to leave university just yet, and the idea of being 21 with a Masters degree pleases me very much
– I did a four week internship at Rolling Stone Australia and made rad friends with my deputy editor. God damn, it looks splendourific on my CV
– Am still yet to kick the habit of leaving things til the absolute last minute, right now being a prime example. I have to get up for work in about 4 hours and here I am typing out a conglomerate of thoughts
– I became addicted to Scrubs
– I fell in love with Ethan Hawke (via Reality Bites) and Ryan Gosling (Half Nelson is soooo astoundingly good!)
– I realised that my friend has a damn good band called Ghosts of Television
– I’ve also realised that no matter how hard I try to resist, I have slowly become the pretentious artsy fartsy wank that I’ve tried so hard not to become… but then again, I fluctuate between moments of absolute idiocy (artsy wank) and normalcy (typical Maggie-ness) depending on what the situation is
– I window show with a gusto, that is, looking and not buying into every single shop
– I don’t volunteer at 2SER as much as I’d like to mostly due to my increased levels of apathy
– Being twenteen is potentially overrated; I woke up the morning of my twentieth and thought, ‘Oh it’s my birthday today’ and then ‘Dammit, I’m late for my 9AM lecture…’
– I’m going to Melbourne with my workmate Ausseela at the end of June which is smackbang in the middle of Melburnian winter which is notoriously cold Yarghh..
– I’m still yet to rid myself of this tendency to write long, pointless entries regardless of the occasion..
– Getting over the death of someone close to you is easy in some ways and harder in many more.

My eyeballs are killing me, and I still have 1000 words to go for this travel piece. Ironically enough, I reckon I just banged out over 1000 words to write this blog entry! AARGHHHH…