Sunday, February 27, 2011

You are what you read?

I am a book nerd. A huge fucking book worm. The nerdiest fucking nerd nerd that ever nerded with books. (Okay, I know that isn't really a proper sentence.) My only problem is that I have a penchant for seriously depressing, fucked up books. May I present to you the books that I have read in the past two and a half months (I read too much):

  1. American Psycho, Brett Easton Ellis. Man feels invisible. Rapes and kills (not necessarily in that order) a whole bunch of people very violently. Imagine nail guns, cigarette lighters, coat hangers, starved rats and acid. Then you find out he's actually losing his mind and you don't know if he killed them.
  2. Perdido Street Station, China Mieville. Main character manages to rescue lover after thinking she is dead for some time, except he watches her get half her mind sucked out and acts like a child yet she still wants to have sex with him then gets really confused because she is essentially a child. So he's stuck with the shell of the love of his life.
  3. The Death of Bunny Munroe, Nick Cave. Son of the main character walks in on his mother after she's committed suicide, both his grandparents hate him and his father dies in his arms after screwing far too many women while he waits outside in the car. Oh, and the poor kid is sort of going blind and I'm pretty sure he is supposed to have Asperger's.
  4. American Gods, Neil Gaiman. Main character's wife dies the day before the main character gets out of jail. Oh yeah, and that's just the first chapter.
  5. The Corrections, Jonathan Franzen. Father loses his mind and thinks his poo is talking to him. Mother is obsessed with Christmas and has bizarre hang ups. Daughter breaks up her boss' marriage by sleeping with his wife after turning down his advances even though she is attracted to him and gets fired. Eldest son is super-depressed and plays mind games with his bitch-of-a-wife. Youngest son is seriously in debt after getting fired for sleeping with a student and gets mixed up with fraud in Lithuania.
  6. High Fidelity, Nick Hornby. Main character cheats on his girlfriend while she is (not to his knowledge) pregnant so she gets an abortion. Then she cheats on him. Then they get back together and bicker a lot.
These books are all very excellent. But very depressing. And looking back at most of the books we covered in English literature (Kafka, Goodnight Mister Tom, When Things Fall Apart), it would almost appear that the more depressing the book, the better it is.

I think I tried to read The Devil Wears Prada after a heavy dose of Byron - thought it might be the equivalent of watching trashy television when you don't want to think - but I couldn't make myself do it. Two chapters of Weisberger and I was done.

Can someone please point me in the direction of some good books that don't make me want to jump off a bridge post-reading?

Chap Laps...

Okay, perhaps my previous blog post didn't explain very much.

Apparently in Melbourne, certain young folk are afflicted with a predilection called "chap laps" which involves driving up and down Chapel Street. For anyone who doesn't know/live in M-town, the South Yarra/Prahran end of Chapel Street is a shopping strip full of alright cafes, fashionable bars and designer shops and far too many yuppies fighting for parking spots.

I only heard about this curious phenomenon a few weeks ago, but there are apparently quite a few kids in Melbourne who aimlessly drive up and down Chapel Street as a form on entertainment on Friday and Saturday nights. Usually in their souped up cars and with loud music blaring. And not because they have plans to go out and go clubbing, or are meant to be meeting up with peeps on Chapel, but because they want to show off their mags and surround sound. No wonder traffic on Chapel Street is a nightmare.

I can't think of anything more boring. Maybe it's because I am a victim of Melbourne's public transport system and try to avoid travel unless it's absolutely necessary. And maybe because I'd rather spend money at a gig, or drinking at a bar with mates, or going out for dinner, then sitting in a car and paying for petrol.

In the words of Pauline Hanson: "Please explain."

Saturday, February 26, 2011

Chap Laps. What the fuck?

No, seriously. What?

Sunday, February 20, 2011

But... can they cook?

I have this little theory that the way people are programmed is a little like the way you set your characters' personalities on The Sims. You get a set number of "points" to play with, and you have to spread them about different traits about the person, whether it be attractiveness, intelligence or personality/social skills.

My reasoning is that you can get people who are attractive and intelligent, but perhaps not the nicest people. Or extreme people who may be extremely beautiful, but a little bit of a bimbo and a bitch. And then you get the mediocre average people who kind of hover evenly between the three - I know, it sounds horrible to say something like this.

Lately, though, I keep meeting these absolutely gorgeous people who are talented and sweet. They are so awesome it is almost sickening - I say almost, because they are so lovely you can be sickened by them. Then the first thing that comes to mind is, "But... can they cook?"

Sunday, February 6, 2011

The Common Sense Movement

I really dig the idea of being a famous journalist or novelist. It's not like being a famous actress or pop star - when you're renown in a literary sense, the greater public generally only know your mug from that blurry, pixelated image that accompanies your weekly column or the hideous picture with your cat on your novel's book sleeve.

With the exception of Neil Gaiman (deliciously foppish black curls tainted with the occasional white streak, and a British accent are pretty hard to miss), I honestly cannot tell you what my other favourite writers look like. To me, great minds like Chuck Palahniuk, China Mieville (I think he may have a shaved head) and Kurt Vonnegut are represented in my mind as fantastically excellent books in my personal library, as thousands of brilliant words filling up space in my apartment.

I find it creepy how my supermarket magazine aisle is filled with row after row of magazines dedicated to celebrity fodder. The poor creatures are hunted down, with pages of each "magazine" stuffed with photos of our apparently-favourite actress/musician/singer/comedian/television personality at the the milk bar buying milk, with disapproving comments from the magazine about how this skinny little twig has really "let herself go" because there is a little cellulite shaking from her thighs. These people would probably have a heart attack if they saw me naked.

If I ever become "famous", I hope I don't have paparazzi or crazed fans following me around, snapping pics with their mobiles (hopefully lack of talent on my part will take care of that). Like Natalie Wood was once quoted saying - but I now can't find the quote on the internet - "I'm not a celebrity, I'm an actress."

I say we start a movement. Next time you are blown away by a stunning performance in a movie or listen to a spine-tingling good album, instead of looking them up on Perez Hilton's blog, go support them and buy their other albums or watch other films they have laboured over for months. Let's call it the "Common Sense Movement".

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Beggars can't be choosers

There is a particular beggar in the Melbourne CBD who I see on a regular basis. She looks clean enough so she doesn't look homeless, and her clothes are never torn and she seems to float between Flinders Street Station and Melbourne Central Station (apart from when I see her eating 50 cent cones outside the Swanston Street MacDonald's).

On one particular evening, she approached a little blond twenty-something for change, with her usual, "Excuse me, but can you spare some change for food and accommodation?" The sweet girl then opened a plastic takeaway container next to her and offered the beggar a delicious looking steamed dumpling, but the beggar recoiled and asked if she had any notes. "If you're actually hungry, you should really have one of these. They taste really yummy!" The beggar then said she really would prefer money because she has a toothache and her dentist told her to not eat anything hard, and only soft food like apples... Umm... soft apples.

Honestly, beggars can't be choosers.

PS: I was once asked for change by a beggar for change and I didn't have much money because I was unemployed at the time so I gave him some food... only to find him looking really clean, well dressed, and messing about with his mates a few weeks later with a Nerf gun. No money my ass. I really had no money to spare.

PPS A similar thing happened to my father, who gave a beggar a piece of KFC chicken breast, and the beggar asked for a drumstick instead.  -___-

PPPS I swear I wrote a blog post about this before, but I can't see it anywhere so here it is again.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Beauty is in the eye of the... parent.

My father is convinced that I am the most beautiful person to grace the planet. He is always telling me that I'm gorgeous, and when I was younger and single and whinging about being lover-less, his theory was that I was so beautiful I intimidated men... um, thanks Pa. I'm sure that's why I was single.

The logic in his theory is that he is constantly showing people my picture on his iPhone and they always comment on how pretty I am. Which really is the worst evidence to prove that I'm pretty because no one is realistically going to say, "My word, your daughter is fucking ugly!"

Although it's nice to know that at least one person in the world thinks I'm pretty. Even if it is my father.