Friday, March 27, 2009

City Lights.

I used to be intimidated by cities; the size of them, my ability to get lost and confused so easily, along with the sheer mass of people, all combined, was just a recipe for disaster. Today was different. Armed with a camera, things aren't so scary. When you stare down a viewfinder at someone you've just asked permission to take a photo of, they're vulnerable; they're one-hundred per cent at risk of being portrayed in any way, shape or light you want them to be in. You can make someone look ugly, beautiful, in love, hateful - all just by the way you shoot them. Having this power is, in general, fantastic.


Walshy thought it would be a great experience to pile us onto a bus for Top Designs, a show case of the best 2008 VCE technology and design classes (media, graphic design, visual communications, textiles etc) of the state. The idea sounded good; All i wanted was an excuse to cruise around Federation Square, Flinder's and Swanston Street, find a good coffee shop and talk shit with Kaisha and Jo.
The actual showcase made me want to tear up my folio into a million little pieces, and start all over again. They showcased the folios and the works, to give students a super good inspiration boost; I took loads of mental notes.

There were a few generic pieces - the runner-up was a photography piece about Phobias. Kaisha, Walshy and I guessed it must have been a technologically retarded old person who had chosen it, as the piece was so fucking generic - you see the same kinds of photographs plastered across the internet, all over Scene Girl's myspace profiles. I was just sick of seeing those kinds of unoriginal photos - "Watch me spew up black shit. This represents and symbolises my fear of colours!"
I won't deny the fact that the composition of the photo's was pretty spot on - the colours and everything were great, but they'd stuck little sticker's on the work, explaining what the work was about.
In my mind, if you need to put a sticker on your piece, to tell your audience what its about, you're not confident enough that your photograph isn't getting its message across. If you're not confident that it's message isn't getting across, don't fucking pick it.
Do the job properly, and get the message across. Reshoot the entire thing if you have to; I'm tired of people who do things half-arsed.

We left the museam and bussed it back to Federation Square, where Walshy assigned us a little point-and-shoot task, which involved giving 60-something teenagers free range of the area with our piece of shit camera's that we'd brought along. No good ones were allowed, because you know, we'd probably leave them in a toilet or with a homeless guy or something...

I'll leave you with some pictures from today; the ones that I liked, anyway.

This guy's shirt was angry.

Street Charlie, the performer I could watch all day.

Ten minutes after this shot, this guy got up and put an echidna puppet on his hand.

This guy was more than happy to let me take his picture.

Me hand-feeding greedy gulls.


Kaisha @ graffiti lane.

Me @ Graffiti Lane.

Me Above Flinder's St Train yards
(i love how my school jumper turns me into a shapeless maroon blimp)

"fuck balloons."

Sunday, March 15, 2009

What Guys Thing Chicks Dig pt 2: Genital Mutilation & Tricks.

My friend Tami brought this point to my attention, as she is one of my avid readers and, well, loves me.
I'm sitting down, having a strong coffee and a cigarette, just relaxing and chilling down, as I do. Tami signs on, and gives me the link to this video, and I'm expecting it to be some crazy porn movie where the guy takes a dump in his girlfriend's mum's mouth and then eats it for her, or some elderly fat guy with a massive penis, dancing around to a BeeGee's song.
Much to my disgust, I found the video in said link, and found myself almost vomming my insides all over my floor - and I'd only watched the first thirteen seconds.

Ok guys, awesome, so you can hack a diamond pattern into your foreskin, piss rainbows, put a safety pin through your gouche with a smile - great.
But, unless you like FreakGirls, you can kiss your sex life goodbye - completely.
Just imagine this situation, you as Mary.

Mary meets a lovely man in a bar, late on a Thursday night. They talk until the Publican tells them that its time to leave because she really wants to get the fuck out of there, take off her heels, wipe off the booze and slobber from the drunks all night long.
mary, not having a good lay from any other boozed-and-confused (and little does she know, this guy is very confused - especially about his genetalia and the thigns he can do with it), decides it will be a spledid idea to agree to Brian paying for a taxi and taking her back to his house for a night of randy fun.
Things are looking up for Mary and Brian in the taxi.
upon entery to Brian's hosue, Mary looks for ther sure-fire reasons to bail: there's no racing car bed, she thinks, no porno posters, or dirty kitchen. Wow, i might come back here again.
Brian cracks some jokes, Mary giggles, makes herself comfortable on his couch. Brian tells her to wait a moment, and disappears into the bathroom. She guesses he's finding condoms or something.
Brian comes out, stark naked and fully erect, and stands in front of her, with a handful of razor blades and a knitting needle.
Mary freaks.
Brian then preceeds to slice his foreskin into several differnt pieces, and gives Mary a play-by-play on how to insert a knitting needle from his gouche, through his scrotum and under one of the several holes he just hacked into his foreskin, to further make his dick harder.

Mary bails like a motherfucker, Brian is left sexless and bleeding near his couch, wondering why she just ran out of his house, screaming and crying.

People who do such things, obviously have a blind and ludacris wife, or no sex at all, let alone feeling in their penis.

And then, we come to dick tricks.

I have first hand witness dick tricks, and yes, they're funny ... for the first five minutes.
Then, you start to feel guilty about looking at your boyfriend's best friend's cock, whilst he bends it into the shape of a fucking pretzel, is pressing it up against a window, or brandashing his scrote around in the wind like it was some kind of toy.
Cool, most guys can make their dicks twitch, thats nothing new.
I had one guy, post-coital, roll onto his back and turn around to me and say "Hey, Amy, I'm waving."
No "jesus, that was great!"
No, no, it was "that was awesome, my dicks waving to you to show your vag how awesome that was!"
Superwickedawesomecool, your dick can dance.

Girls don't think dick tricks are cool, they think theyre kinda funny for the first twenty seconds, then we all sit down and think "I wonder if that's why his dick bends to the left?" or "That completely explains his odd love for karma sutra."
He just loves dick acrobatics! Awesome!

See guys, girls can do vagina tricks too. but when we say that, you guys get your jocks all in a knot, and get all grossed out, because we can queef on command, shoot pingpong balls from our vaginas, fake an orgasm by tightening our muscles in our pelvis, and stash things up there.
And lets face it, clit piercings just aren't that cute. They make a box look like it was part of a thigh once, and God got angry and took to it with an axe, then felt guilty about doing that, and gave it a ring to try and say sorry.

Can we just stop the genital mutilation, please?
Can't we just be awesome with what we've got downstairs and live without the checkerboard foreskins and diamonte vaginas?

Please, and Thank You.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Vietnam Ate My Sewing Machine.

Its a friday.
I'm a teenager.
I've got cigarettes and a whole $39.45 in my wallet.

Someone please tell me why I'm not out and about, hitting the town somewhere, doing something wild and insane, having some crazy sex romp, shooting up in a dark and manky alleyway, snorting cocaine off of a hooker's arse or shaving someone's eyebrows and cutting half of their face away?
Someone please tell me why this is so?

instead, I'm at my laptop after exhausting all my efforts at tryign to find
1) my favourite My Little Pony tshirt.
2) my favourite high-waist skirt.
3) condoms.
4) my heater.
5) parts of my sewing machine.

As for my sewing machine, I've found one half of it. It was stashed under a gigantic crate of pigstye mess junk that mum and I have been hoarding since the turn of the century.
Only, it's missing the pedal.
I can't sew a damn thing without the pedal.
I started handsewing stuff last night, and I got half way through and then realised it's just not going to look as professional handstitched as what it would if I had the godforesaken motherfucking pedal.

In other news, My mum and her cousin (more commonly known to all of my drop-ins as Uncle) are turning into health freaks. Today, I caught them burning their cigarettes.
Not smoking, burning.
I watched in cold horror as they poured petrol over their cigarettes (just to really make sure they couldn't salvage a fucking thing) and put a match to them. In the process, they just about burnt down my backyard. The tree caught fire; I thought that it would be another Black Saturday repeat in my very own backyard.
Don't be fooled; Their tyrade does not end there.
A week ago, Uncle disposed of our chocolate stash, reserved only for when the 3-am-munchies attack with vengance. He threw out the ice creams, the ice magic, the blocks of homebrand cooking chocolate and left only the milo.
What the fuck am I meant to do with Milo?@!
"Oh, shit - I'm so down for chocolate. Gee, none of that in the cupboards. I think I might just go and eat some milo. Mmmm delicious Milo, wow my mouth feels really dry, better wash it down with some milk!"

Mum's stocked my fridge - yes my fridge (we have two) - full of fruits.
Fruits are not, in any way, shape or form, going to help my munchies in the middle of the night. One minute, I'm going to be chowing down on a pear. The next, wake up glued to my pillow by fruit juices, with brown pear smooshed on the side of my face and the core lodged in my ear.
Awesome fun.
Can't wait for that, because I just love having pear all over me. I love it so much, when I bathe, I bathe in fruits. I put them in a big, huge blender and munch that shit up until its watery like, well, water, and then wash myself down in it.

She tried to buy some ultra-expensive cholesterol-free yellow shit in a tub, claiming to be some kind of substance akin to butter.
If its not from a cow, its not butter.
If its not in a blue container, with a cartoon cow on the front frollicking freely in a field of daisies, it's DEFINATELY not butter, let alone Devondale.
Devondale might as well be my God. It goes on everything; in my potatoes, with my toast, with my saladas, with my chicken - even when I cook something, I use butter instead of oil.
Unless cooking for Kaisha, because she's vegan.