Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Johnny Same Length

Everyone's friends with someone like this. You know, the guy whose hair is always the same length. It's like their hair never grows. It just stays this perpetual length.

Either their hair is stunted or they trim their hair ever-so-slightly once a week. Both is kind of freaky.

(I was going to add an analogy about Rolex bottling the perpetual length into a clock that never needed to be wound... then I realised it made no sense and that I'm sleep deprived.)

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

I can haz cute picatures of wabbits

I was reading some guide to good blog writing the other day, and it mentioned pictures. Apparently people like photos, and if Lolcats and Cute Overload are any indicator, people really like photos of fuzzy animals.

So, um, here's a pic of my bunny. I couldn't think of any text to go along with it. But you know. A picture is worth a million words.*

* That said, I wonder why photographers only get paid slightly more than writers do, and not a million times more.

Writer for hire!

This is probably the most bizarre place to put an ad, but if you like my writing and would like me to write something for you or would like my portfolio please contact me through my website ( or paige.x.cho [at]

My bread-and-butter kind of writing would be gig reviews, CD/DVD reviews, news pieces and tour write-ups, although I do thoroughly enjoy writing interviews and feature articles. I have been commissioned to do social commentary (similar to the stuff on my blog) as well as press releases for bands. I do write fiction for fun but have never published any of it of out fear of embarrassment. I will also edit pretty much any sort of writing, including technical reports (when I was in university I used to edit foreign students' medical/lab/business reports).

Then again rent day is looming ahead ominously, and would pretty much undertake almost any sort of writing assignment.

Taking the Lord's name in vain

Also, I should clarify:

If I use the phrases "dear lord" or "oh my god", it's used as an expression of speech. Believe it or not, I said that the other day and someone actually thought I was religious. Which is odd because I'm pretty sure that Christians aren't supposed to use their god's name in vain. I also don't mean to be particularly offensive to Christians, but then again I say that about my swearing.

Maybe I'll start saying "oh cum dumpsters" instead to avoid confusion/offending people.

Evolution vs. Stagnation

This is an extension of my previous blog (

I sometimes look back at things I have worn, said, listened to or liked and cringed. Like blue cream eyeshadow and silver velcro platforms when I was twelve. And tan-coloured stretchy miniskirts from Supre when I was fourteen. Or corset, leather pencil skirts and way too much eyeliner when I was eighteen. And I like that.

There's a Friends episode (oh dear lord, I've admitted that I have at some point in my life watched Friends - it's true) in which Monica goes on a date with a guy from her high school. When she was in school she was the fat obese kid everyone paid out and no one wanted to take to the prom, and he was this super-hot stud who rode a motorbike, lived above his family's garage and worked in the bowling alley (or the movies, I can't remember which). Fast forward however many years, and Monica is skinny (to the point of anorexia, perhaps), lives in a gorgeous New York apartment with her best friend and is a head chef at a restaurant. The popular kid? Um, exactly the same. He lives with his parents, still rides a motorbike (note, I think bikes are quite cool) and works in the same joint. What's cool when you're a kid isn't really cool when you're an adult. It would explain why I don't wear that metallic SlapBand on my wrists anymore.

So I'm hoping that when I'm thirty I'll start throwing up when I look at the things I liked when I was twenty-two (yes, that's my age).

PS I'm also hoping that I develop a sense of tolerance when I'm thirty, but I think that will be a little far fetched.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Umm... Yes. I know that song. It's the one with the chorus... and, um...

I wish there was a weekend course on culture. Some people forget that I was born in the late eighties. I went to a rich, private girls boarding school on the Gold Coast. All the girls were more interested in hair extensions and their ponies than Radiohead - who I didn't really listen to until after high school much to my older brother's chagrin. Even having an older brother with excellent taste in music didn't help because he just made fun of my musical leanings as a teenager. My parents did a good job trying to be good tutors, taking me to the MoMA, making me listen to the Beatles and letting me try food like cous cous and dosai. But it's pretty obvious that I was more interested in shopping at Pacific Fair and platforms, unfortunately.

The first few guys I dated were very much into metal (Pantera, Slipknot, Korn, Sepultura, All That Remains, Children of Bodom), which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. I still love my Nine Inch Nails and can sing along to pretty much any Marilyn Manson fan. But seriously. Anything that wasn't metal was taboo. This culture thing is really difficult sometimes.

I probably shouldn't admit this, but sometimes I feel totally uncultured. I know so many older, much wiser and creative people in their mid-thirties. They all seem to be band managers, former rockstars, photographers who have snapped famous people, writers who rub shoulders with icons, stylists who have given certain Mercury Prize winners advice... You get the idea. I think they forget that I was only seven when Kurt Cobain blew his face off. When I talk to these ridiculous dapper folk, I sometimes have no idea what they are talking about. They may reference a movie that I have heard of but have never actually seen. Or talk about their favourite band and I'll have to go home and Wikipedia the shit out of it.

I recently went for a job interview to be state editor for a certain music establishment, and the question came up. "What Australian bands do you like?" While there are gazillions of Australian bands on my iPod, and many local acts that I absolutely adore, my brain went completely numb and the only two people who came into my mind were Yves Klein Blue and Sarah Blasko. I think I repeated them twice for effect. I should get an A-plus for acting like a blonde. Any good hairdresser will tell you it's hard going so many shades lighter in a matter of seconds. I pretty much undid all my I-swear-I-know-what-I'm-talking-about pretence I had going on.

This is probably my social suicide, admitting this. But it's true. I still feel like a dorky fourteen year old figuring out what she likes (Kitty Daisy & Lewis) and doesn't like (Washington), what I can admit to liking without I being laughed at (Lion King) and what will (INXS). But honestly. If someone was to hold a crash course on culture, I would be the first in line.

PS I recently admitted this to a photographer in his (I think) mid-thirties who told me not to worry because he only developed his taste in music in his mid-twenties. There's still hope for me yet.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I am a weakish speller

Click on the image to enlarge. I typed in "anagram" into Google and look at what it asked me.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

University state of mind

You know what I find hilarious? People who bitch about university, and how dull or hard it is. If you think semester one of an accounting degree is boring, then sweetie you better change courses. Because the rest of your career is likely to be pretty much the same thing. Except that if you fuck up you don't repeat a subject, you get fired.

Although on the other hand, I wish I hadn't applied that logic to my life plans. While being a neuropsychologist is probably quite boring, I'd probably be getting fuckloads more money than I do as a freelance music journalist.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Memory fail

So I was sitting on the train today, and thought of a brilliant blog post. Then I forgot it. So you don't get a brilliant blog post. Perhaps I shouldn't post this.