A BLOG FOR BLACK PAUL

DISCOVERY #17 - STALKING

2011-02-02T16:20:00.000-08:00

London is great for many things; expanding your cultural mind if you can be bothered to TATE the time to, taking long autumnal walks through parks littered with swans and drunken reggae obsessed hoboes, meeting people of different European backgrounds and rating them on how much they reflect their cultural stereotype, bargaining with cockney vendors and battling to find a seat on the tube. But maybe the greatest thing that London offers us filthy foreigners is the opportunity to stalk celebrities.

For us folk who come from countries in which the most exciting celebrity is the runner on the Neighbours set or the stand in actor for Baby in the Dirty Dancing musical, London becomes a thrilling hotpot of stalker opportunity. One doesn't even need to be trying to stalk for the stalked to appear.

Musicians, actors, artists, runners on Neighbours; they're all here and they're all ready to be stalked. And now with Google and the Internet going to great lengths to ensure that nobody goes unseen and unnoticed, I can virtually type in "Louis Theroux house" and know where in London to hang out in order to "bump" into my favourite soft spoken, bespectacled documentarian (the answer is Kensal Rise).

When I arrived in London I remember constructing a mental list of all the celebrities I would like to stalk - Morrissey (apparently living in Rome, dang), Jarvis Cocker (spotted last week at an East London club), Nick Cave (lives in Hove and is a regular at the cafe branch I am employed with), David Bowie (splits his time between London and New York) and Mick Jagger (once did a drive-by through his suburb in Richmond but all I saw was wild deer and other oldies). Basically, any old, hot English musician that could potentially become my decrepit sugar daddy and I the step-mother of their numerous children.

Unfortunately, I am yet to see any of those people and have been cursed with the stalker disease of spotting celebrities who are young attractive females put on earth to make adolescent gals feel bad about themselves. Waiting for a bus one rainy evening trying to conceal my drowned rat chic with shrugged shoulders and a pulled up collar I see Keira Knightley saunter past ragging on about how she can't speak very good french. Another day after having scoffed a three man feast of Thai food I spot Natalie Portman near Brick Lane, in full pout and probably dreaming of ballet and cunnilingus. One blurry night in a club I whizz off for a second to go and take a whizz and come back to find my friend grinding with Peaches Geldof on the dance floor. Another occasion I spy the runner from Neighbours listening to reggae with some drunken hoboes in Hyde Park.

So, i'm sure with a little bit of luck (Google) and persistance (hours of loitering and lingering in celebrity hotspots) I will be able to "bump" into my leather faced celebrity sweethearts. And hopefully they won't do a runner once they realise we aren't actually Neighbours at all...

David Bowie waiting on the side of a street, not for a taxi or his model wife, but for me, the drowned rat Australian.

Mick Jagger wrote the song "Miss You" about me. Says in the liner notes.

Open the red door Nick Cave... I'm the one you've been waiting for.

A photo I *did not* take of Natalie Portman on her way to cunnilingus classes.

DISCOVERY #16 - ALFRED HITCHCOCK

2010-09-10T15:34:00.001-07:00

My dearest Alfie,

Unfortunately, I do not remember our first encounter vividly, or even remotely for that matter. One might even go so far as to say that our initial meeting was hazy, unclear and short lived. It was one unremarkable, lonesome afternoon about five years ago, wherein I prepared myself a steaming hot cup of joe and settled into the girl shaped groove of my family's faded navy couch. There was a blonde girl flailing inside the black and white vision before me and the word Vertigo flashed before my eyes and then I nodded off. It was a jolly nice sleep though, dreamless, short, more of a catnap than a full on slumber. I'm sure your film was the opposite; dreamy and long and not full of nice things.

I'm sorry to admit that our second crossing was met with the same amount of luck as a dozen smashed mirrors. Do you remember at all? Take your mind back to first year university in which our enthused lecturers forced Vertigo upon my youthful eyes. I, being agitated and inattentive, spent the duration of this time drawing pun related cartoons with my buddy next seat over, occasionally giving you a few seconds attention here and there. My buddy and I then decided that a toilet excursion was the pep and oomph we needed to get reinvigorated about your cinematic world. Upon our return we found ourselves more confused and lost than ever. For you see we left during the turning point climax Oh My Goodness Don't Miss These Next Five Minutes! part of the film!

So, as you can imagine, my contempt towards you for all these years has merely been to do with my personal laziness. But fear not, for I have come around and thus I am writing to you today. For somebody so enamoured with old people it shocks myself that my love of you has taken so long to develop, particularly when I realise that you are thirty years in the grave now. Surely logic would suggest that my timeless love of the old would naturally account for an obsession with the dead!

You see Alfie, I came to my senses not long after that last fateful experience one early afternoon whilst watching North By Northwest as a daytime film on television. Maybe it was because it was in colour and therefore more appealing to my short attention span but more probable is that it was just a ripper of a film. Excuse my language for a second here but, heavens to betsy, the winning combination of Cary Grant, utter suspense and Mount Rushmore made me weep with joy. But soon after this cinematic journey was over I had forgotten all about you, Albert, I mean Alfred, Hitchcock. Sure that movie was brilliant but balderdash! I thought, it was just a lucky strike in what was probably a long history of boring black and whites.

Not long after I arrived in London I found myself desperate for all things English. Hail Britannia! I would heckle in the streets as I pranced around in my Union Jack dress and fake pair of buck teeth which nibbled at a pork pie in one hand and a scotch egg in the other. In the midst of this patriotism for the mother country I decided that it was time to get down and dirty with the most famous English auteur, yours truly, Alfie. So over a few sleepless weeks we embarked on a passionate affair, usually lasting about 120-140 minutes at a time and including such bombshells as Grace Kelly, Jimmy Stewart, Laurence Olivier and my absolute favourite mummy's boy Norman Bates.

Do you remember those glorious days, not more than two weeks ago now? It began in Paris in the Latin Quarter, wherein I stumbled into the cinema and watched Rope as part of a retrospect of your work. Then our sordid liaison resumed in London with a full on marathon of Rear Window, Psycho, Dial M For Murder, Rebecca, Strangers On A Train and The Birds. And now I find myself feeling like Norman Bates did towards his mother; obsessed, devoted and desperate to haul your skeleton from the Californian earth where you rest, dress you up and pretend that you're here with me now and forever.

Your devoted follower,

N.R.Minus.

Remember how you used to phone me up all the time to see if I was born yet?

Such a nice evening we spent together here. Don't know why you look so glum love.

Just another day of shooting with you.

I was always your favourite bird you'd say.

Alf, who the hell is this? This isn't me, don't tell me you were too chicken to tell me you loved someone else :-O!

Just another day hanging out together on set.

Barbie doll I desperately want, buy it for me from the grave will you Alfie?

DISCOVERY #15 - ROALD DAHL

2010-08-18T17:31:00.000-07:00

There's nothing more wizzpoppingly wonderful than a person, place or twit that inspires that lil ole devil of a feeling called nostalgia (or in Roald Dahl speak, snozwhackilstalgia). So, it is with great whizzle and sizzle that my childhood love of Roald Dahl has been rebubbakindled by a thrillbunking visit to his museum and grave site in Great Missenden, north-west of London.

The giraffe and the pelly and me set out on our snozwhacking adventure on a fine sunday morning. I received a high recommendation from a Mr. M. Teevee that travelling by Wonkavision to the museum was the cheapest, quickest option. Not wanting to waste any precious scrumdidliumptious bar spending money we chose this mode of transport and unfortunately arrived at the museum the size of snozberries. Thankfully, there was a tinsy tinyicious bottle of George's marvellous medicine at the arrival point and after a few sippy-ips of that we were back to our original human size.

Once we retrieved our golden tickets I felt everything around me turn backwards, upways, sideways, frontways, underways, allways, until suddenly I had been transmogrified into my ten-year-old giddy widdy self. It was splendid! Roald Dahl's magic was potent as ever and I found myself revelling in the dilly delights of colouring, story-telling, stamping and baking for the entirety of this snozwiggling of a day at this glorious museum.

This museum is the firstist, onliest, onesest time in my whole twenty, twenty one years of living that I have been hurled back into the kingdom of kiddydom. We sat for hours colouring and sparkling Quentin Blake doodles in which I was so immersed in my creations that not even the sight of an oompa loompa could have tore my eyes away from the rainbowific kaleidoscope before my eyes (well maybe if the oompa loompas were singing and dancing about naughty children then I might have had a quick squizzy whizz). Later, we took turns sitting in Roald Dahl's tattyclismic wonka bar coloured writing chair before unbuckling our pants for a feasty delight of fizzy lifting drink (which left me bruisey woosied after I catapulted from the ceiling down onto the floor) and Bruce Bogtrotter cake (thankfully, we weren't forced to eat the entire thing).

All our gobbling and guzzling and colouring and glittering meant it was the perfect time for a round of storytelling. We assembled in a room full of tiny midget humans (kids? Oompa loompas? I wasn't quite sure), crossed our legs and revelled in the fun of some Roald Dahl style fairytales. Many hours later after some run ins with some fantastic little foxes and the inhabitants of a giant peach stone we found ourselves running amok in the gift shop... because an enormous crocodile had been let lose in the store! No, i'm only fibbing, in fact, Ms Trunchbull was there, more angry than ever at the amount of children in the place, hurling them through the windows, the ceiling, the floorboards, the doors, the air vents, everywhere! In fact, I am lying again. We were really running amok at the sight of the dilly dally delights housed within and in the midst of our Roald Dahl fever we emerged with mugs and thugs, pencil cases and dental braces, stickers and knickers.

After a sugar filled, fizzpopping four hours at the museum we meandered up to the grave site of Sir Dahl in which my happy wappy levels risked extreme emergency overload, for what greeted us at the top of this mountain was no giant peach or big friendly giant. Nor was there any sign of Mr or Mrs Twit. Instead there stood a quaint English church in which the oompa loompas there were serving tea and scones, an absolutely, positively, tummybumbling delightful combination that made me squelch (and later on belch) with joy. The remainder of that sunshine filled afternoon was spent relaxing on the bench by Roald Dahl's tomb giving Augustus Gloop a run for his money with the level of sugary delights we consumed.

Since this joyous day I have been drowning in the everlasting (gobstopper) memory of this journey into the world of my childhood hero. Whilst the museum might have been designed with snotty nosed children in mind, it sure turned this witching twit into a twitching kid for a day.

Scones and tea prepared by the oompa loompas, unfortunately song and dance not included.

My accompanying twit in the colouring room.

Fizzy lifting drink (beware you will have to pay the oompa loompas to clean the ceiling if you get sucked towards the fan) and Bruce Bogtrotter cake.

Willy Wonka, Charlie Bucket, Grandpa Joe and some astro-oompas just chillin' on the roof.

Film set for Fantastic Mr. Fox. One word to describe this sighting... fantastic!

DISCOVERY #14 - WORKING

2010-08-08T11:30:00.000-07:00

Two months ago I moved to London and after much spending, drinking, eating, travelling, adventuring, fox watching, buck toothing and tea it has come time to become a Real Adult. One who works, pays bills, gets excited over crockery and has midlife crises. So a week ago I braved the slight drizzle of Old England and pranced past the neatly trimmed hedges that line the streets to find me a job. With some false enthusiasm ("Yes! It is my DREAM to become a waiter! I've always wanted to work in a pub!!") I found myself three jobs in an hour.

With a newly boosted ego I sauntered off to my first job one evening at a local Lebanese restaurant and bar. After much lying ("Oh! I have lots of Lebanese friends in Sydney! I just love kebabs!") I was forced to prove my abilities through a series of elaborate and dangerous tests and riddles of which my sanity was at risk.

Firstly, I had to deal with the strange coworkers this joint had teamed me up with; three boys my age talking incessantly about their excitement in going to see the Westlife reunion concert in a couple of days. I tried not to choke on my hummus as I comprehended what I was hearing. People, straight males my age, being excited about seeing Westlife! What the devil was going on? Had they smoked too much shisha at this place and gone crazy?! Maybe i'm just an uptown girl whose been living in my uptown world too long and I don't know how to deal with the backstreet guys? I guess my mama never told me why? I forced a buck toothed smile and tried to occupy myself for the remainder of the evening so as to avoid these strange folk.

Next, at my second shift, my boss decided it was time to test my knowledge and ability as a waiter... with a succession of insulting monotone shouts at me - "DO YOU KNOW THE LEBANESE MENU BY HEART? WHY NOT?", "YOUR SHIRT IS WRONG, DO YOU KNOW HOW TO IRON?!", "YOUR BOOTS ARE TOO LOUD, WALK ON YOUR TOES FOR THE NIGHT!", "YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO STAND PROPERLY!", "YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO PUT A GLASS ON A TABLE!", "ARE YOU GOING TO THE WESTLIFE CONCERT NEXT WEEK? WHY NOT?".

Being an ironing nazi I was extremely infuriated by the accusation that I did not know how to iron. What cheek! Of course I know how to iron! My shirt was wrinkle, crease and burn stain free! I would win a gold medal at ironing if the Housewife Olympics was a legitimate sporting event. This assertion made me the most irritated of everything he said and with a slightly crushed ego I concocted an excuse about feeling sick and made a beeline for the door (but not without making use of the free staff meal first!). The next day I enthusiastically rang up the restaurant and quit. I celebrated that evening by wearing an unironed dress into London, clunking my loud boots into the nearest HMV and burning some Westlife cds before eating at a rival Lebanese restaurant.

My second job was at a local pub down the road. I was warned upon arrival that the night was going to be busy - Westlife were playing around the corner that night and the overenthused fans would be flocking to the pub shortly after. The news was terrifying and I spent the next two hours trembling as I replaced glasses and gave people their meals, all the while eavesdropping on their animated conversations about the recently reunited boy band. During this time I made the reasonable decision to quit as soon as I could. I made up an elaborate story about how I suffered from a terrible illness called Westolifaphilia and I resigned on the spot. I zoomed home and comforted myself that evening with copious amounts of tea and by blasting music that was not Westlife.

Feeling a bit down and out about my jobseeking abilities it was with great fear for my (west)life that I trudged to my third job as a deli assistant and shopkeeper at an Italian food chain. Thankfully, the job turned out to not just be a success, but a roaring one at that! I spent my first shift (and my shifts since) charming up the elderly customers who are the main clientele whilst getting paid to eat cheese, cake and other Italian foods. Plus, there has not been a single mention of The Band That Must Not Be Named and on my second shift my manager praised my ironing abilities and my extraordinary ability to create perfect creases in clothes, even going as far as to closely inspect and touch the carefully placed crease in my shirt. Why yes, iron very good at steaming me clothes Sonny Jim!

So excuse me now, this uptown gal has some cheese to slice and some cakes to munch!

My new boss, Antonio Carluccio. Note the elegant crease line in his shirt running from his shoulder to his sleeve.

Carluccio again. This time sporting a crisp blue shirt, again with a perfect crease down the arm. Unfortunately though he doesn't seem too pleased about the ironing job on this one.

This time trekking through what is probably Italy, holding some secret recipes? No visible crease line in the shirt but a white, slightly unbuttoned shirt is the perfect choice for the sunny landscape Carluccio is in. A tick from me.

Wearing velvet??! I really must have landed the perfect job if my boss is a fan of my favourite fabric!

DISCOVERY #13 - LARRY DAVID

2010-04-01T03:13:00.000-07:00

Whilst being sick at home with glandular fever I've turned to a neurotic, balding short man to aid in my recovery. No, he isn't some geriatric from the local hospital program i've taken pity on and let in my house for a few rounds of checkers and a mug of tea. Nor is he my older casanova whom i'm hoping will cark it quickly so I can pocket his millions. Instead he's Larry David, the mastermind behind Seinfeld and the whinging, whining geezer from Curb Your Enthusiasm.

I feel like our relationship begun from a successful blind date in which my good friend HBO and my older, dearer friend Seinfeld both approached me one day to tell me about this hilarious little friend of theirs who would be perfect for me. Having exhausted a number of television show addictions and convinced there was nothing left for me to watch except for Simpsons reruns and Antiques Roadshow (desperate times=desperate measures) I decided to give this guy a go.

Initially I was bored and couldn't last the gruelling half an hour he required of me, my mind wandering to thoughts of when the next Simpsons episode was going to air and wondering whether there might be any old guys in the neighbourhood who might be up for a round of checkers and some steamin' hot tea. Instead I endured a few episodes and like a fine wine it got better and better with time.

One might say it has gotten so good in fact that I am rendered incapable of doing anything else except pressing the play button on my DVD remote. During meals or gatherings with friends I find myself hurrying to eat or struggling to make an excuse so I can get back to the television and find out what predicament Larry is going to find himself in next. I also find myself in social situations or in the workplace humming the theme song and practicing with friends over and over Larry's signature line "prittehhhh, prittehhhh, prittehhhh, pritteh good" so that I can whip it out when things I eat or see are prittehhhh, prittehhhh, prittehhhh, pritteh good.

And it ain't just Curb Your Enthusiasm which has me shackled to my couch. Seinfeld is the only other show capable of inciting demon-esque qualities in myself. In fact, it is probably 1000 hideous pig snorts higher in laughing degrees than Curb Your Enthusiasm, which means I am limited to watching Seinfeld alone in a sound proof room with nobody in my house.

Anyway, I really don't know how I'm going to larry on with my life unless I curb on this addiction. God, send me a sein-feld so I know I'll get through this! Actually, I still have a good six episodes left of unwatched Curb waiting for me in my DVD player as I type this so I might just finish them off and then scowl the streets for a checkers playing senior citizen to fill in the rest of my hours.

Observation 1 - Larry David wears bow ties and is confused and frustrated.

Observation 2 - Larry David holds (stolen) flowers and is confused and frustrated.

Observation 3 - Larry David vents his confusion and frustration.

Observation 4 - Larry David doesn't look so confused or frustrated. I am now confused and frustrated. Something must be prittehhhh, prittehhhh, prittehhhh, pritteh good to make him this cheerful looking.

DISCOVERY #12 - PATRICK WOLF

2009-12-11T23:54:00.000-08:00

One who reads this blog might have come to the conclusion that I am a dreadfully obsessive person who pines over aged musicians (and the aged in general), inanimate objects & concepts and Harmony Korine. Yes, you are rather observant I admit, but alas, you are mostly incorrect. Truth be told, there have been only five true obsessions in my life, obsessions which have brought out the beast inside me, wreaking havoc on my friends, school teachers and the poor family whom I share a house with.

Most of these pscyhobsessions are too dangerous to name on the Internet for fear of being blacklisted by the Gods Of Good Taste. However, they may just have included a cheesy romantic comedy actress who has a famous joke involving her murder by a knife. Another might have been in my pubescent days of being a pre-emo and revolve around a band who share a name with an ex American president. The third was possibly another celebration of bad taste wherein I worshipped a 'colourful' band playing cheesy love songs under the guise of indie rock music. The fourth was british junkie band The Libertines and the fifth was, you guessed it, Dan Aykroyd. I mean, Patrick Wolf.

I became obsessed with Patrick Wolf at the start of 2007, spent the next year doing everything an obsessive person does with those they are obsessed with; stalking him outside his house, photoshopping myself into pictures with him, casting love potions, constructing paper dolls of him in his various musical stages and then arranging them around a custom built shrine in my bedroom and seeing him perform live four times. Now whilst only one of these activities is in fact the truth, possibly suggesting that I was not as obsessive as one might think, I still was head over heels, wolf-whistling, wolframite, wolfgang armadeus mozart, obsessed.

I can pinpoint the moment when I first heard of Patrick Wolf. It was in 2005, in the midst of my Libertines obsession and I was on my way to see a film with a peculiar old friend of mine. We were going over the Harbour Bridge in Sydney on a train, it was pouring with reindeers and the sun was going down stairs. He forced his disc man into my lap, for in my days us youth didn't have all ya new fan-dangled contraptions such as "I-Pods" and "MP3 players", we had to slum it, manually carrying around whichever CDs we wished to listen to. Hard times. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the Germans had just invaded France and Belgium, the allies were starting to be concerned y'know. But anyway, he forced me to listen to the song Tristan from Mr. Wolf's second album Wind In The Wires and I reluctantly listened to it, pretended to be interested and promised I would give it a proper whirl when I was in the comfort of my abode.

The CD sat idle and unlistened to in my bedroom for a good three months before I gave it back to him, pretending that it didn't really do much for me and I continued to listen to Pete and Carl and their homoerotic garage punk tunes. A year and a half flew by and one night in the Summer of 06 I pulled out an old copy of a music magazine I used to read, one might say this magazine was the opposite of a friend if you get my drift. Within the pages of this below par magazine was a tall, skinny boy with a mop of fire engine red hair. I looked closely at the faded image and while my memory of him had faded since the war, I knew in my heart it was him, shellshock must've got him I exclaimed in my mind. But so yeah, um, it was Patrick Wolf. Being reminded of him suddenly revived an interest in me and the next morning I went to great lengths to get all his music that I could. The rest they say is modern history.

The next year and a half was spent caught in the stranglehold of Patrick Wolf's music. I became friends with one of my dearest kin Caitlin Sheardog (hola!) because she spotted me at the first Wolf concert prancing onto the stage to nick his set list and I saw her wearing white gloves and snapping photos of him like a crocodile. I risked ultimate failure in my final high school exams by going to his uber camp, uber upbeat concert the night before my last exam. Then the day after that exam was complete I flew to Melbourne to see him perform again. I met him several times, baked for him several times, made him several things, gave him several letters, cried several times in the vicinity of him and talked about him several times every hour of every day.

Like the great romances of our times such as Brad and Jennifer, Rose and Jack, not Edward-i'm-so-bland-and-boring-Cullen and Bella-i'm-so-whingy-and-one-faced-whatever her last name is, something was bound to bring us apart. Whilst there was no Angelina and no iceberg to tear us apart, there was the fact that I grew out of being an embarrassing fan girl and came to my nonsenses.

The reason my old love of Patrick Wolf has resurfaced is directly related to the fact that I saw him play three nights ago, the first time since that last encounter in Melbourne two years ago. I had cast myself off as a Patrick Wolf grinch; I was still an avid fan but I was somewhat over his camp, naked kitsch. But as soon as he shimmied his way onto the stage my love was a hundred percent revived to the max. Whoop-ah! And that my friends, is how the Allies came to win the war.

And, more than ever, it is necessary for me to post some pictures of Monsieur Wolf for your benefit.

Apparently Patrick Wolf likes Spike Milligan, Spike from Buffy and Spike Jonze films.

According to Nickipedia, Patrick Wolf began the Emo subculture (2009, p.2).

He ate a lot of carrots in his youth and was particularly a fan of marmalade jam.

Bearwolf, the 21st century adaptation of Beowulf.

This picture is from when I saw him three nights ago.

May the source be with you.

This picture is the night I was him two years ago, the night before my art exam.

Tomato Source

This is from the second time I saw him, also two years ago.

Sourcey Minx

This is from the first time I ever saw him.

The Sourcing Hat

And the set list I stole from the first time I saw him!

DISCOVERY #11 - ORIGAMI

2009-10-10T07:45:00.000-07:00

"Hip To Be Square" might have been made famous by Huey Lewis and the News but what ol' Huey really meant to say was that it's hip to fold squares. The art of origami used to exist as a hazy playground memory for me, reminding me of my childhood days spent having scraped knees and sherbet sugar slams but recently it's made a resurgence in my life as a communal activity that can be enjoyed with friends and strangers.

The latter part of that sentence has recently come into play at the art shop where I work. Several months ago an origami book like no other arrived in our store. And, being the over-excited spendthrift that I am I was instantly sucked in by the flashy fonts, colourful pictures and the impossible hope that I might one day become a famous origami guru. I hastily bought the book and just as quickly lost it in the depths of my shambolic bedroom.

The next shift I had at work my colleagues and I decided to attempt some of the origami to help bide over a quiet day and parade our nimble fingered paper folding skills to wide eyed customers. We skipped to the end of the book where 70-step dinosaurs, labradors and other animals awaited our eager minds. I went for the 60-step rat, believing I could make a whole coat of them in one afternoon and become the Pied Piper while my friend went for the heavily detailed labrador.

Death, violence, exams, the Twilight series and celebrities without makeup are all widely accepted to be highly distressing notions but none of these compare with the extreme torment of trying to make these nigh impossible paper figurines. A lot of fists were banged, tears were shed, many a paper cut was induced and out of all of this pain and anguish not a single rat or labrador was crafted. Rats!

Desperate to relieve ourselves of this bitter memory we went about our work duties as though nothing had ever happened. Later that week in the art store I was greeted by two young boys purchasing copious amounts of origami paper with their mother. Lured in by the prospect of becoming some kind of failed-sportsman-turned-coach-cashing-in-on-young-upstarts I struck up an excited conversation with them about the wild world of origami. "Did ya guys know there is robotic origami!? Origami houses?! Life sized origami Lord Of The Rings characters?! I have this book where you can make a triceratops! A labrador!"

But alas they weren't moved by my tales of wondrous origami feats, instead brushing off my animated chatter with their startling confessions of godlike origami skills. The labrador? Easy! The rat? Could do it blind-folded! The 70-step dinosaurs reserved at the very end for the real origami go-getters? Well, they had an army of them on their shelves at home! Mind boggled and lost for words I swiftly handed them their square papers and watched as they skipped out the store back to their origami museum of a house.

During the week I invited my pals over for high tea and subtly left my origami book on the table, inspiring them to get involved. Without revealing my stories of origami hardship and the legend of the the two boys, I flipped to the labrador and suggested we have a go. I gave up after 5 steps, another passed out after 10, I called the ambulance when my other friend stopped breathing at step 14. There was one survivor left, determined to make her crumpled scrap of paper a labrador, but three hours later and with ten sore fingers she threw in the rope. Disheartened, the shindig ended and we parted ways in silence, cursed by the pains of a paper defeat.

The next Saturday at work my two young child friends popped in specifically to see me. They held in their dextrous fingers the fruits of their origami seeds. A complex totem pole in one and, gasp, a labrador in the other! I held this holy grail of paper craft and was shocked to find that it was not a hologram, nor a picture in a book, but the real shebang! Holy moly, this must be what a religious experience is like!

I delved into a lengthy discussion with the boys, who I found out were 6 and 7, named Ben and Lucas and were mathematical geniuses dulled by their friends at school who struggled to fold a sheet of paper in half. Then it happened. They suggested to show me how to craft the labrador; the 60-step labrador which they had memorised. Without thinking I accepted the challenge, retrieved some paper and ensured my coworkers could handle the shop alone for as long as it would take. This was serious business. The older brother Ben led the charge while Lucas was my right hand man, keeping an eye on me as my shaky fingers struggled to fold.

Twenty minutes later and with something of a crowd gathered around us, the labradors were complete. Well, one perfect red labrador and my blue creation which resembled a mutant peacock with an inflated leg. We signed our creations and I attached them to the wall of the art store for all to see and marvel. The boys said their farewells and promised to be back soon to share with me more of their expert skills. But, it has been several weeks and there has been no sign of my spiritual leaders. So hark! Young boys come back this weekend and teach me more! Be there or be square (piece of paper folded into a rat).

DISCOVERY #10 - THE ELDERLY

2009-09-08T00:02:00.001-07:00

The elderly, the seniors, nannies and grannies, pops and pas, the old codgers, the geriatrics and geezers, the doddery and decrepit, the walking wrinkles, the lawn bowls playing, sherry drinking, walking stick dependent, slow moving, slow talking, cake bakin', bingo bangin' senile folks that are the roots of our very existence.

There are countless views thrusted into the laps of the cardigan wearing oldies who had their heyday in the twentieth century and have now been ignored as tottering talkers who we only relate to on a family or professional level. Some of these feelings include that they can't grasp the idea of modern technology, they cling obsessively to their war memorabilia, repeat stories and most importantly, are walking (or wheelchair bound) reminders of death and the disintegration of physical beauty.

But there tends to be mutual consensus on these sentiments with many oldies casting stereotypes on the Yoof of today. Curse us! In their eyes we are just mischievous, uncouth, disrespectful, precocious, abbreviation loving, skimpily dressed, technology addicted, potty-mouthed, sexually deviant vampire junkie hoons.

In a bid to try and dispel these two-way myths I made it my mission to get in tight with the old. And little did I know that underneath my skimpy clothes lay a dormant power of mine, ripe and ready to be unleashed on the world of the over 60 year olds. Like Robert Redford in The Horse Whisperer I too share a similar ability to whisper with the elderly. Actually, the more likely explanation for this affinity with the aged is that I have more in common with them than I do with the majority of my peers. I'm nineteen going on ninety.

My mission is playing out at the art store where I work, wherein my new year's resolution was that I had to befriend an elderly person to the point where they invite me over for devonshire tea. Unfortunately, I haven't achieved that grand prize yet, but in the course of my friendly efforts I have acquired three elderly buddies. The first two are a lady named Bunty and her charming husband whom I converse with about drawing, botany, classical music and eye-catching font sizes for business cards and whom I promised to trade mix cds with. The other, a resilient regular, is a retired artist named Terry who clunks his trolley of booze into our shop and shows me his photos, shares his wisdom on travelling and croaks about films, art and books with me.

There are several other folks whom I am close to baiting with my fervent curiosity. Possibly my favourite is a mystery missus who first caught my eye with the electric multicoloured knitted jumper she was wearing when perusing the store. I struck up a conversation with her and she was so chuffed by my yearning for her jumper that she promised to knit me one herself. She nabbed my details and a week or so later I showed up at work to find a wrapped up present waiting for me. Well, it wasn't a jumper, but that didn't matter, for the nimble fingered granny had conjured up a pair of rainbow bed socks for me instead!

Many a rivetting chitchat with many an old person later, I have discovered that our rapport exists due to my genuine interest in their ramblings and in their thrill at having somebody to listen to them. Some great conversations I've had have involved elderly strangers telling me about collections of shrunken heads they own, rooms in their house devoted to giant self portraits they've done, bands I love which they met thirty odd years or so ago, amazing purchases they've made at opportunity shops, billion dollar notes which they once owned and pet hyenas they used to feed in Africa.

Once I gave in to my deep down doting of the decrepit I suddenly realised the clinching factor in this affair. The elderly are living time capsules of all the thrilling things that existed in the past of which I wish I could have experienced. Beautiful vintage clothes, antique cars, the 1960s, the moon landing, the lack of mobile phones and computers, James Dean, flappers, drive-in theatres, unequal rights for women, the Cold War, the World Wars and all the history we still cling to and remember today (wait, scrap those last three points).

In conclusion, I don't care if sometimes the elderly nag and whinge or that sometimes they resemble grimacing gargoyles because if you put on some high power spectacles and see past their wrinkles and spindly silver hairs, you might be surprised to find a pair of handmade socks waiting for you at work. The elderly will never get old in my books!

Here are some of my favourite pictures of elderly people, courtesy of Henri Cartier-Bresson, Helen Levitt and The Sartorialist.

DISCOVERY #9 - VLADIMIR NABOKOV

2009-09-07T05:47:00.000-07:00

Vladimir Nabokov, light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul, Nabokov. My love of lepitopterist and literist Nabokov doesn't quite match the dashing and dirty Humbert Humbert's perverse love of Lolita; a rotund bald man buried six feet under fails to summon words such as hunk and spunk to my mind. On the other hand, if Nabokov's words one day transmogrified into a human being then I would be racing to the alter with this paper and ink man immediately. Vladimir Nabokov, you are totally rad-okov.

A desire to see Stanley Kubrick's film adaptation of Lolita was the catalyst for me to read Nabokov's novel about four years ago. So I knicked a tattered copy from my older sister, read it, died, was revived, watched both the films and then began the journey into the realms of Vladinsanity. Yet, my lifelong battle with being a terribly slow reader has meant that I have only read a limited amount of Nabokov's others works, instead choosing to obsess madly over Lolita.

In high school publicly declaring my devotion to a novel which on the surface is about a pedophilic relationship between a charismatic charmer and a precoscious pubescent was a dangerous move. My class mates scoffed and guffawed at me, probably convinced that I had some concealed creepy affliction of my own. Later on however, after much desperate nagging about the merits of Lolita some friends decided to give it a chance. And, of course, they jumped ship and have been flying the Nabokov flag high in the sky since.

Lolita is the one story I can't resist. Despite an urge to expand my literary senses and overcome my other reading illness of giving up on books halfway through, I find myself returning to Nabokov's dreamy, dirty, delicious, decadent and damn-right devilishly delightful novel time and time again. It is an especially versatile novel; the first time I read it I was struck by the desolation and despair of the characters, the second time I saw it as a sassy slapstick. The third time I read it with an analytical and referential framework, using the annotations at the back to decipher Nabokov's wordplay like it was the ultimate cryptic crossword. And this is why I believe this book is so successful; it appeals on numerous levels to whatever the reader wants to receive from it at any given time.

At one stage, in 2007, satan entered my body and whilst I didn't scramble backwards up staircases or rotate my head 360 degrees, I did partake in actions that required the work of an exorcist (aka, another distraction to obsess over instead) to cure me eventually. I began fashioning myself towards the filmic representations of Lolita, purchasing heart shaped sunglasses left, right and centre, wearing frilly socks and eating heart shaped lollipops whenever possible (my teeth are especially disgusted by that last point). I also decided to start collecting copies of Lolita and lending them out to anyone and everyone, like a hustler on the street. At present, I have five copies, two of which are loaned and lost. There was even one moment in which I almost forked out $150 on a limited edition copy only to realise that I would actually have to become a hustler to pay it off.

I can't remember when my marriage to Lolita broke down and I started cheating on Nab and Lol with other interests, but I feel my heart will always be devoted to this piece of literature. Well, to be brutally honest, I'm probably too much of a slothful nitwit now to ever have the patience and bothersome to spend an extended amount of time trying to understand another novel or piece of work in the same way.

And it's not just Lolita that pulls at my heartstrings. If ever there was an intellectual crush to be had, Vladimir Nabokov is the man to have one on. Whilst his words are tantalising, poetic and sometimes indecipherable, his non-literary life is also intriguing and mildly intoxicating.

At the same time in which Lolita was released and made Nabokov a notorious, dirty figure, he was also the number one lepidopterist in the world, renowned for his extensive knowledge of butterflies and often leading hunting expeditions. Furthermore, Nabokov was a high ranking chess player and dedicated much of his writing to the art of chess playing. Phwoar! It gives me butterflies just thinking about it; the perfect combination of intellect and romance! However, you probably chessed it, Nabokov pawn isn't exactly on high demand... But looks don't matter anyway, he can be my knight in shining (zombie) armour anyday!

So, what began as a simple adoration of a timeless classic developed into the flu-lita, of which I now have a dreaful nabo-cough that I've never been able to qui(l)t(y). If Nabokov were alive today I would be very Vlad if I could get to know him.

Pictures from http://www.life.com/

(that is his wife Vera in the sixth picture with a typewriter that looks rather similar to mine!)

DISCOVERY #8 - TYPEWRITERS

2009-09-06T03:46:00.000-07:00

I felt I should apologise to my poor little typewriter for losing faith in him too quickly. Thankfully, he wrote back to me and forgives me entirely. Phew..

(PS- Spot the double negative!)

Here is Jack Kerouac and his scroll of On The Road. That novel was type-ical of the beat generation.

William S. Burroughs also favoured using a typewriter. He'd eat his breakfast, do some typing, have Naked Lunch, type some more, then have dinner.

Apparently Leonard Cohen wrote his novel Beautiful Losers on a typewriter and then threw the typewriter into the Aegean Sea.

It was a rule that any photographs taken involving typewriters had to be in black and white, as Bob Dylan exemplifies here.

DISCOVERY #7 - PUNS

2009-08-03T02:50:00.001-07:00

I was in Punama the other day, admiring the punaramic views and dining on puncakes and puneapple and listening to punk when I was punched in the appundix by a sudden punderstanding - I love puns! There is something so punderful about using puns. It's like being in Punjab, sitting in the punshine with a romantic compunion, smelling the pungent aromas of Indian food as you punder your scholarly role as a pundit on the Punic Wars. Absolutely puntastic!

Ok, i'm stoppun with the puns. Right....(pun, two, three)... now! I have been developing my opinions (or should I say opunions) on puns for the last few weeks, questioning the nature of this punssion of mine. Why? What? Who? How? Where? When? Pun?

In those punsive weeks I have obtained a PunHD in puns and now, ladies and gentlepun, I feel I can punlish my punstulations on the matter.

I had my first hit when I was about seven years of age and have been a Punkie ever since. Just like all the other kids my age, I was often found reading knock-knock jokes and the like to my peers as we juggled our yo-yos in one hand and ran around playing tip with the other. The pundamental element of these jokes? Puns! Thus, I believe that all people great and puny have shared a love (or for the scrooges out there, a hate) of the pun from an early age.

As my friends and I went through pu(n)berty we replaced a worship of the pun with a shameful love of sarcasm, believing that this unintelligent form of humour was a direct representation of our teenage rebellion. The Pun was left out in the gutter, too lame and outdated to be included in our juvenile vernacular. But deep down I knew that my first love could not be forgotten and, like two long lost lovers skipping towards each other with outstretched arms in a daisy field, I went p-un-rancing back into the arms of the Pun.

This is where my second theory comes into place. Puns are the most egalitarian of joke forms. They can be enjoyed and understood by people young and old. They are quick and easy to make up and they don't rely on taking the Nicky out of anyone meaning that everypun can enjoy a little ole' laugh without being made pun of. And if anyone dares say that puns get tiresome and boring then they should be punished for life. Puns might as well be supunatural spirits because they are so magical.

My third theory uses science to punpoint a genetic inclination towards Pun Addiction. For a love of puns also stems from a person's name. My surname is Minus and has been the driving force behind many a punny Dad Joke in my time. Friendships have been formed over humorous puns constructed out of my name, whilst many of my close friends happun to have punalicious names. Yet, in rare cases, the pun filled name can have devestating effects on a person's relapunship with the Pun resulting in much hatred and bitterness towards this innocent form of word play. But to all those loons I say loon-sen up and don't pundervalue the name you have been given!

My fourth and final theory is this. Puns are punfect!

Here are some other people I would love to have in the Punation I am starting.

- The Dandy Lions in the first picture would be Pun Ministers of my society.

- Hour about joining my society Grandfather Clock?

- Our Father Who Does Art In Heaven could be A-Men to add to my nation.

- Oscar was Wilde about puns - "Immanuel doesn't pun; he Kant"

- Lewis Carroll was also famous for his punnage. He took this photo, I'm not kidding.

- Vladimir Nabokov also loves to pun(ch).

Pun Voyage!

DISCOVERY #6 - TEA

2009-07-12T07:49:00.000-07:00

I was indulging in nostalgia just before about my relationship with one of my dearest friends. This wonderful friend is reliable, always there for me in times of need, is guaranteed to cheer me up and loves accompanying me on a Saturday morning as I journey into the world of weekend sudoku and crosswords. This friend also ranks highly in the popularity stakes, has a wonderful collection of exciting paraphernalia to play with and occassionally guides me through life with their powerful ability to tell the future. This sweet friend of mine is tea!

Or more specifically, English Breakfast with two sugars and a dash of milk. Sometimes Vanilla Chai if i'm feeling flavoursome and Lady Grey on occassion. Sadly, I cannot pinpoint my first encounter with tea; a shameful admittance, but I guess it to be around the age of three or four wherein my grandparents would give me a half milk, half tea combo in a pink plastic mug and an arrowroot biscuit on the side.

Our relationship has been pretty smooth sailing since then with rare quarrels along the way. Such as the time I was reading a novel rather intensely for a day straight and the lukewarm remains of my English Breakfast cuppa decided to spill all over the novel, interrupting the reading process for the night as I carefully set about saving the book from an untimely death. Or the time I had a scandalous liaison with tea's sworn enemy, the coffee bean, around the beginning of last year. My discovery of the flat white with two sugars diverted my attention for a few months but now the two have learned to tolerate each other's presence in my life and I remain good friends with both (though tea, you know you will always be number one in my heart).

A passion for tea goes hand in hand with a passion for scones. The two married in Devon, England and became Devonshire tea and have been charitably donating themselves to tea lovers the world over since. For me, Devonshire tea is a strict dietary requirement along with eight glasses of water a day and five serves of fruit and vegetables. However, my journey towards Devonshire tea heaven was not an easy path but an arduous two year challenge of struggling to find the perfect scone recipe that would accommodate the subtle flavours of a fresh loose leaf cup of tea. Thankfully, I got there in the end and can now sleep soundly at night.

My love of tea sometimes tea-ters on the border of insane junkie-like obsession. There have been countless hyperactive days in recent years in which I have consumed upwards of nine cups a day. I once made a sound piece for university based around the drinking of tea. And if you take me into any specialist tea shop I am bound to leave with an empty wallet; many dollars have been spent buying humungus bowl sized tea cups, miniature pink tea sets, a Japanese style tea pot, several tea cups with or without inbuilt tea strainers, tea straining accessories, varieties of tea which sounded exciting at the time but which I am too unadventurous to try and Wes Anderson's The Darjeeling Ltd.

The consumption of tea also provides the impetus for friends and family to come tea-gether. There have been innumerable afternoons spent with my grandma, arguing about the order in which cream and jam are placed on scones or bickering over whether milk and sugar are cardinal sins of tea drinking. There have been friendships formed over 3am tea drinking in my house after nights out. Stargazing adventures can only occur with cups of tea present. Tea is absolutely necessary for the morning after slumber parties. High teas are a commonplace activity for my friends and I whilst I retain vivid images of my father rolling a cigarette with one hand as he drinks a mug of tea with the other, simultaneously driving our car.

So, tea, I wish to take this final paragraph to reiterate how much I value your presence in my life. Thank you for burning my tongue every now and then when I get overenthusiastic and drink you whilst you're still searing hot. Thank you for all the times you've helped me with ancient history assignments in which your beautiful sienna pigments helped replicate primitive parchments. Thank you for inspiring Cat Stevens into writing a decent album of 1970s folk classics with Tea For The Tillerman. Thank you for providing a zany alternative to smoking pot for all the aging hippies throughout the world. Most importantly, thank you for being you. Tea, please don't ever leaf me.

I would love to have David Bowie for Devonshire tea just like in his song Rubber Band -

"While I eat my scones and drink my cup of tea. The sun is warm but it's a lonely afternoon."

Leonard Cohen is always welcome for tea as well because Everybody Knows that he is amazing.

It seems Kurt Cobain might also like to join my Leonard Cohen tea party. I'll drink Pennyroyal Tea with Kurt anyday - "Give me a Leonard Cohen afterworld so I can sigh eternally... I sit and drink pennyroyal tea."

Johnny Depp and Kate Moss drink tea as well!

Dale Cooper loves his coffee but if he ever feels like some tea then he can give me a call.

This girl is clearly daydreaming about tea.

PS - The photograph at the beginning of this post is called Tea Party 1972 by one of my favourite artists Bas Jan Ader!

DISCOVERY #5 - MONEY MAKING SCHEMES

2009-05-22T03:08:00.000-07:00

If one day I was to wake up and magically be a member of the fruit family there is no question as to what fruit I would be. I'm a paw paw through and through. Not because I resemble an oversized unripe mango. And not because I am eaten by foxes, raccoons, possums and human beings who lack good taste buds. It is because I am always poor. Poor poor in fact.

The reason for my permanent financial suffering is not because I spend all my money in two dollar shops on cap guns, wigs and halloween themed toys. Or because I fund a personal addiction to lollies, cupcakes and op-shop clothing. Nor because I spent my life savings buying a copyright to the word "because" so that I could use it repeatedly in this blog post. It's because of my name. Minus. With a surname like that I was bound to have a negative bank balance... and be the victim of endless dad jokes. The only positive result of having the name Minus is the mathematics skills I have inherited from it. But, as my previous blog posts might have indicated, not enough maths skills to get me anywhere useful in life (eg. the moon).

Basically, i'm doomed. This revelation came circa Grade 4 when everybody around me was buying themselves a heftily priced Furby and I was left purchasing myself a cheap Chinese imitation Furby keyring. It was around this time that I crafted my first plans for making myself some sweet, sweet mulla. My partner in crime was a pal down my street who shared my vision of a Furby Farm or alternately a lolly feast of epic proportions.

We began by making a series of tribal inspired ornaments sourced from nature and targeted at mothers looking to bring mother Earth into the housing environment. In other words, broken branches haphazardly tied together with wool; more Blair Witch than homewares kitsch. Our door-to-doors salesman approach failed and we made one pity sale of $3 from my older sister.

Two years later I found myself in need of some quick bucks once again. This time to help fund the purchase of detective paraphernalia for the spy club I led at school. A magnifying glass, a notepad, disguises and of course, lollies, were essential spying needs. My neighbourhood pal and I tried a different approach the second time round, this time doing a series of watercolour paintings inspired by Japanese art. Not only did we knock on people's doors, Jehovah's Witness style, but we set up a stall on the side of the road advertising ourselves as twenty-first century Monets. The pity vote helped us once again with our parents and one deluded neighbour chipping in and buying our works. The result? A whopping $13.

But alas, there have only been consistent failures since that one high point eight years ago with money making schemes being limited to outlandish ideas that never get put into practice. Some of these plans included brownie drives, theatrical performances, busking, garage sales, dog walking businesses, babysitting, becoming a pirate and joining the mafia.

Recently I have found myself reconsidering these past ventures in a desperate bid to travel, move out of home and buy myself a Furby. Yes, I have a job, but this dough tends to be wasted away on doughing out and the word "save" is a synonym for "spend" in my books. So, as I type out this blog post, I simultaneously find myself completing the registration form for the Italian mafia.

To quote Tony Montana in Scarface, "in this country, you gotta make the money first. Then when you get the money, you get the power. Then when you get the power, then you get the Furby."

My dream wish list -

- A Furby, in case you can't tell..

- A horse. Or any giant animal.

- Front row tickets for my friends and I to go to a Viktor & Rolf show in Europe.

- Chloe Sevigny for Opening Ceremony wardrobe.

- And while I'm at it. Some Akira Isogawa clothes wouldn't go astray.

- A time machine so I could go into the past.

- And, most importantly, a trip to the moon!

DISCOVERY #4 - HARMONY KORINE

2009-04-30T19:59:00.000-07:00

I was introduced to writer, director, photographer, artist, general crazy man extraordinaire Harmony Korine by a strange, corruptive boy back in 2004. He thought it would be a swell idea to see Exorcist: The Beginning at the cinema together. The gorefest left me wondering why we didn't just see the alternative, Win A Date With Tad Hamilton!. That same traumatising night he thought it would be a splendid idea to lend me, at the time a 15 year old Reese Witherspoon fan, Kids; the 1995 film written by Harmony Korine and directed by Larry Clark.

The name Kids conjured up bubbly, sunshine imagery of a Little Rascals style adventure flick possibly involving toys, baseball, unruly animals and cheerful skipping. This movie was going to be a real treat! Needless to say the film was not as sugary sweet as I had hoped.

Instead Kids was a brash depiction of young teenagers in New York having sex, taking drugs, bashing each other up, getting AIDs, spreading AIDs, raping each other whilst passed out from illicit substances... y'know, the usual merry activities kids get up to when not playing Monopoly and eating sherbet at 6pm on a Friday night.

Surprisingly, I wasn't as disgusted as I probably should have been. In fact, I actually quite liked it as a documentary of sorts. So THIS is what the teenagers of New York were getting up to at the same time Jerry Seinfeld and co were getting harassed by the Soup Nazi!

I returned Kids to the strange, corruptive boy and not long after, I ex-communicated him from my life (he had borrowed and lost one of my favourite DVDs and I was a fickle femme). On the other hand, Harmony Korine came into my life and has yet to be ex-communicated. My obsession with Harmony Korine has grown since that pivotal moment like a cancerous lump on an old man's back. So thank you oh strange and corruptive boy, wherever you are in the world, losing people's prized possessions like George Costanza loses hair.

Here are just a few reasons why Harmony Korine is infinitely more amazing than everyone else in the world!

1. Gummo.

Gummo (1997) was Harmony Korine's directorial debut about a community living in an Ohio town after a tornado. Most of the actors are probably inbred and at one stage or another been in an episode of Jerry Springer. Nevertheless, it is visually stunning, has an eclectic soundtrack including death metal, Madonna and Roy Orbison and features Korine playing a drunken homosexual who tries to crack onto his physically strong black midget friend. It is an achingly beautiful film and rates a solid 10/10 from me.

2. He dated Chloe Sevigny in the 1990s.

I'm going to get this out there straight away. Chloe Sevigny is super cool, super amazing, super stylish, super talented, super duper and super in every other way. Except maybe super annuation and Super Bowl because that makes little sense. Thus, Harmony Korine and Chloe Sevigny as a couple is more super-cala-fragalistic-expialidoshus than if Morrissey and Robert Smith were to become lovers and name their band The Robert Smiths. It is incomprehensibly wonderful that they once dated.

3. He is a multi-talented cyborg demon who vomits creativity.

When Harmony Korine gets to age 100 he will not be one of those old codgers who recline in their rocking chair mourning the many years they wasted doing crap all. Imagine if he did, all he could say would be, "what a shame I wasted all 100 years of my life writing seminal cult films, directing idiosyncratic masterpieces, filming video clips for the likes of Sonic Youth and Catpower, garnering critical acclaim for my zines, having exhibitions of my art and photography, making psycho folk music with Ssab Songs, writing novels, writing songs for Bjork and producing numerous short films. Curse my wasted life!" In fact, Harmony Korine is only 36 and he could still say all that. Bless his soul!

4. His name is Harmony and he is male.

How many guys do you know with the name Emma? Any Jennifers? Any males with the name Tiffany? I'm guessing you don't know any because most parents don't name their daughters Michael and their sons Annabel. Except Harmony Korine's! And it doesn't even seem peculiar. Actually, if Harmony had a name like Steve or Jim then that would sound terribly wrong. By default, Harmony Korine's parents are probably also very cool.

5. All his films are perfect.

Julien Donkey-Boy (1997) was Harmony Korine's second feature film and stars Ewen Bremner, Chloe Sevigny and Werner Herzog. It's about a schizophrenic boy named Julien and his relationship with his family. It is perfect. Ken Park (2002) was written by Harmony Korine right after he wrote Kids and was directed by Larry Clark. I haven't actually seen it but I think it is safe to say that it is perfect. Mister Lonely (2007) was written and directed by Harmony Korine and involves sky diving nuns and celebrity impersonators. There is a really hideously bad scene involving some talking eggs. But still, it is perfect.

6. He lived in a tree house.

In the last ten years when most people were probably going to school, working at a job or getting terrified over the Y2K bug, Harmony Korine was living a creepy, crazy, crackpot existence. He burned down his house. Then he lived in a tree house on a diet of girl scout biscuits. Until that house also burned down. Then he went to Peru and spent six months with a group of fisherman hunting for a magical fish that supposedly makes music if you touch its scales. He was a lifeguard during this time. He interned with a cobbler. He went around filming himself getting into fights for a film that has never been released. Oh, and it's probably noteworthy to mention that he was also a drug addict...

7. He says fantastic things.

Here are some of my favourite things Harmony has said:

- "I was involved with a cult and I got into a fight with a member whose wife was autistic. She gave me her dog leash of her 'invisible dog' when I left. I went home and hung up the collar and two weeks later, I heard a bark and I knew it was time to make a new movie."

- "The South changed since I grew up there as a kid, but there’s still a few streets that are really special, and great characters. Like the other day I saw this woman with curlers in her hair and boxing gloves, and she was punching herself in the face, she was walking, a black lady, and it was spectacular, the kind of thing I live for. And the other day I saw this black guy dressed up as a dollar bill, just walking down the street, it was like a stuffed animal but a full dollar bill."

- "There was a period of time when I would wrap myself in tinfoil and I would put rubber bands around my joints so I could move better. I would wear this kind of like a shell and put a cap on my head because I felt I was having trouble containing my thoughts. It was around this time also that I became obsessed with cap guns. I used to go to the tourist stores and just buy all the cap guns. I was in a friends house on the Rue de Lis and I would walk around like that and just shoot these cap guns."

8. Look at these pictures. He is perfect!

All photos are from this definitive Harmony Korine web site!

Harmony Korine's parents who are probably very cool (see point 4).

DISCOVERY #3 - DISPOSABLE CAMERAS

2009-04-26T06:58:00.000-07:00

Admitting to somebody that you've just discovered disposable cameras is like going up to Perez Hilton and exclaiming that you've just found out Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman broke up. You're about ten years behind the eight ball. You may as well exclaim this celebrity revelation to Perez via telegram or else travel out to his district in horse and cart to converse personally on the matter.

Yet, we're living in a technological age wherein new inventions and new scientific discoveries are being made all the time. Any minute i'm expecting to hear the news that the first cloned human being has been teleported to Mars to begin colonisation there. And amidst these frightening futuristic feats I (and others) find myself going back to archaic technologies. Disposable cameras being just one of them.

A few months ago my digital camera died unexpectedly. Instead of sobbing for days as I prepared an eulogy to read at it's funeral to accompany the camera on it's journey to camera heaven (or, alternately, getting it fixed for a reasonable price at my local camera shop), I packed it away forever. I felt liberated, like I was an accordian playing monkey who had just broken free of my shackles and dashed for freedom from my frightening whip-wielding enslaver.

This is because digital cameras are depressing mechanisms of torture and death, put on this planet by Satan to murder the human race. Ok, I might be exaggerating slightly and I can understand the convenient, inexpensive nature of digital cameras. But they have taken the excitement and romance out of photography. When I think of digital photos I think of pristine, sterile images devoid of the depth that film provides. Or I think of adolescents going to a party and taking hundreds of identical photos of themselves with their arm outstretched, pouting at the camera in their tight, lycra dresses, deleting the photos until they find the perfect Facebook display picture.

On the other hand, disposable cameras provide a simple, thrilling way to take photos. They can be purchased for as little as $5 and the process of buying the camera, taking the photos, putting them in to be processed and developed and then getting them back, having forgotten by this stage what is on the film, is extremely rewarding and invigorating. Plus, you are provided with a physical photograph as opposed to hundreds of images that exist solely on your computer.

Here are two things I have learned so far from my experiments with disposable cameras!

- Don't use the flash. But if you do, sticky tape some coloured cellophane over the flash to give the photos a coloured tinge.

- Find a good photo shop to get your photos developed at because it impacts on the quality of the photo.

Here are some attempts at using a disposable camera -

DISCOVERY #2 - OUTER SPACE

2009-04-23T07:29:00.000-07:00

In the last two weeks I have discovered outer space. Not that i've been unaware of the night sky for twenty years, living the life of an anti-vampire, non-nocturnal agoraphobic. Neither have I been living with the amish in a barn full of cows, thus missing out on the infinite literature, films, songs and references to the big black universe. It's more that i've discovered an appreciation for outer space, which has developed into a beastly obsession for stars, planets, the moon and David Bowie.

I don't know what's taken me so long. Outer space has been a happening trend since, well, forever. The Russians and Americans fought over it in the Cold War. Luke Skywalker discovered his incestual leanings there. ET flew home. People eat space cakes. David Bowie ate some space cakes and went about convincing the world that a starman wants to meet us. Homer Simpson went there, ate chips, came back. Heck, even Lance from N*Sync trained himself to go to space only to be told bye, bye, bye by NASA. Myspace appeared. Milky Way chocolate bars appeared. Aliens appeared and got killed by a bald Sigourney Weaver. And now Richard Branson is taking us there this year. All in all outer space is inescapable, or should I say, ineSPACEable.

Yet, only now have I jumped on the bandwagon. If i'd known I would become obsessed with space I would have worked harder at being a child genius, therefore securing a geekish love of outer space and an addiction to maths and science, consequently securing myself a place on the NASA team and ultimately securing me as the first person to live on the moon. Damnation!

My lust for space has manifested itself in childish ways. Hard earned pay has been spent purchasing hundreds of glow in the dark stars to make my bedroom roof a replica of the night sky. Precious time has been used building and assembling my own planetarium so that I now have a flimsy model relating the size and distance of the planets to the moon. And my nights, when not spent ogling at my roof, have involved excursions to appropriate star gazing locations around my suburb. It's amazing how many shooting stars you can see if you just look... for many painstaking hours. It seems an affection for outer space goes hand in hand with nerdism, peter pan-ism and get-a-life-ism.

But i'm not ashamed of my liaisons with outer space. I'm ashamed of those who, like me two weeks ago, ignore the galactic going ons up there. Space is so infinite and fundamental to our existence that to have no interest in it reflects ignorance of the most depressing kind. How can somebody not be bewildered by the endless possibilities of what is out there? How can an individual not be frightened by the likelihood of WARFARE WITH ALIENS FROM DISTANCE PLANETS??!! Or worse, facing this alien warfare alongside Tom Cruise ala War Of The Worlds?

So if you're feeling a bit starry eyed, like you're stuck in a bit of a black hole, then you've comet to the right space. Here are a few starting points for galactic rehabilitation -

Music

Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie

Christmas On Mars by The Flaming Lips

Films

2001: A Space Odyssey by Stanley Kubrick

A Trip To The Moon by George Melies (The first science fiction film ever made!)

Books

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Fashion

Space inspired fashion from Stockholm. Photos by Marta Thisner -

DISCOVERY #1 - NICK CAVE

2009-04-23T07:26:00.000-07:00

Considering this blog's name was inspired by a Nick Cave song it seems only fitting that the first post relates my discovery of him. Falling in love with Nick Cave was much like the relationship between Mr Darcy and Lizzy Bennett in Pride And Prejudice; a teasing introduction followed by a bitter love/hate relationship completed with an all out proclamation of my love and affection. The only difference is that Nick Cave doesn't have a clue who I am and thus our love affair is unrequited (for now anyway).

It all began back in 2004 when my family dragged me along to the Leonard Cohen tribute concert Came So Far For Beauty at the Sydney Opera House, which featured musicians such as Nick Cave, Jarvis Cocker, Rufus Wainwright and more covering Cohen's songs. I was fifteen going on ten; my afternoons spent licking roads for games of truth and dare and the nights filled with sleepovers consisting of Eminem, slasher movies and sugar addictions. Thus, this family shindig was something of a groundbreaking event, an introduction to culture and life outside of b-grade horror films and white trash rap. And of course, I hated every minute of it.

However, I remember with relative fondness Nick Cave's rendition of I'm Your Man. Not so much the musical side of things, but more the jazzy gymnastics of Nick Cave. This tall, lanky punk jigged and jived around the stage making his four minutes in the limelight vaguely more interesting than the rest of the show, which seemed to be made up of elderly folk singers caressing the microphone like it was their walking frame.

Over the next couple of years as my tastes began to change, I heard Nick Cave's name mentioned progressively more and more; by newspapers (I was now a sudoku fiend), by my sisters (I was phasing out Eminem from my musical tastes) and from word of mouth (I was no longer hanging out with people who made me lick roads). Yet I was still a dismissive, hate-filled teenager filled with dismissive, hate-filled thoughts. Why does he always wear that stupid suit? What's with the ridiculous handlebar moustache? Singing with Kylie Minogue? What a lame-o.

There was no Eureka moment, no scene involving Colin Firth as Mr Darcy emerging out of the water in a wet shirt, that made me realise I loved Nick Cave. His music had just clicked. I was obsessed. I obtained all his albums, I sat in the classroom writing his lyrics all over my diary, I read his Wikipedia page and I wrote his lyrics all over.. oh, well, maybe I was not as obsessed as those fanatical audiophiles who own every bootleg of every concert he's ever performed but I still liked him heaps and heaps.

My wish of seeing Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds was finally fulfilled in January at the first annual All Tomorrow's Parties festival on Cockatoo Island in Sydney. Their performance was so astounding the first night that I made my friend and I fake wristbands and broke into the festival the second day to see him play again. Now I just need Nick Cave to turn up at my doorstep, personally sing I'm Your Man to me and make a formal proposal of marriage for it to be a complete Jane Austen picture. You're the one that i've been waiting for, Nick...

Nick Cave Essentials

- Murder Ballads by Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds

- The Boatman's Call by Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds

- Henry's Dream by Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds

- Grinderman by Grinderman

- The Birthday Party by The Birthday Party (originally released by The Boys Next Door)

- Book : And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave

- Film : The Proposition written by Nick Cave