an open letter to the female hipster population

to whom it may concern,

it has come to my attention that an unlikely pathogen is poised to organise an assault on our collective fashion immune system. in the interests of both my own personal tastes and a general concern for public welfare, i am using my (lowly) position in the blogosphere to encourage my readers to arm themselves with the necessary prophylactics. i am talking, of course, about the resurgence of the mia-farrow-circa-rosemary's-baby haircut.

in light of these findings, i think we need to keep one general rule in the back of our minds: unless you have specific plans to gestate and squeeze one of satan's offspring out of your birth canal, this hairdo probably isn't for you. unfortuately, every token scenester with a sack dress and black tights seems to think that they can disregard this simple advice. have we learned no lessons from the skinny jean uprising of 2006? just because something is in vogue at the moment doesn't necessarily mean that it is the best choice for everyone. that is part of the beauty of fashion - not everything looks good on every person, but we pick and choose and run with what works best for us individually.

let me take time now to fully acknowledge those rare, luminous, pixie-like individuals who actually look their best with short haircuts. halle berry is one who automatically springs to mind, and michelle williams seems to rock it appropriately enough, albeit bearing a more-than-slight resemblance to a bavarian hausfrau in this particular photo. (do you think she could fetch me a pretzel? or a franziskaner?) i'm sure we all can think of one or two people in our lives who have been blessed with the specific bone structure and facial features that allow this phenomenon to take place. however, in all likelihood, most of the individuals who fit into this category have probably figured it out by now. yes, i'm sure there is a whole community of people out there who are languishing under the weight of their flowing tresses, not yet realising that with just a few quick snips of the shears their lives could be transformed beyond imagination. i just highly doubt they are all frequenting the same melbourne back-alley hangouts on a thursday evening.

now is the time for preventive measures. let's halt this coiffure groupthink before it gains a foothold and can never be eradicated. stop the tomfoolery, ladies. explore your individuality, expand your horizons, push your personal boundaries. just don't pretend to be avant-garde when in reality you're just one of a horde of 21st century fembots (minus the all-important hot pants and 9 mm nipples).

there was something in the air that night...

i am not ashamed to admit that last night we went to see these fine entertainers, complete with faux swedish accents and bad 70s hairdos.

and where, might you ask, did we have the privilege of viewing such talent? why, the melbourne zoo, of course. (this explanation makes the above photo moderately less creepy, emphasis on the word moderately. there is no feasible explanation for those capes).

speaking of creepy, doesn't the gentleman on the right bear a striking resemblance to david spade? after some thought, i realised that it could very well BE david spade, because whatever happened to him anyway? it seems as though he has dropped off the face of the earth, and australia is about as close as you can get to dropping off the face of the earth without actually defying gravity, so maybe i've outed him. maybe he has changed his name and converted to the cult of abba like when cat stevens converted and changed his name to yusuf islam.

silly david. first capital one commercials, and now this? oh how the mighty have fallen.

note to self: never trust a dentist with bad teeth

this sunday was the one year anniversary of the death of slobodan milošević. (don't ask how i managed to put those crazy accents in there. let's just say i am a blogger genius. or i copied and pasted from wikipedia. six of one). to commemorate this event, i have decided to share one of my favourite stories involving my housemate/homegirl, the indomitable lindsay shofferhoffer. please note that names have been slightly altered to protect the not-quite-innocent, and i have not obtained express written consent to share this story from either party. regardless, methinks they will be honoured to have their 500 words of fame in the blogosphere.

i first met lindsay here in the melb in feb. 06, after being introduced via e-mail (how quaintly dorky) by a mutual friend. she stayed at melbourne uni's graduate house for her first few months in the city, a residential college of sorts for members of the university's postgraduate community who had yet to secure/no desire to secure their own housing. the g-house rent was ridiculously high, but for your money you received two meals each day and a healthy dose of eccentricity from the incredibly diverse community housed within its walls.

i am sure lindsay could write a novella about the variety of people encountered during this heady time, but for now we will stick to the story at hand. the antagonist: a middle-aged dentist from serbia who (ironically, as lindsay is always quick to point out) has really really bad teeth. obviously this isn't the best advertisement for his skills in dentistry, but perhaps that's why he was furthering his education at melb uni. at any rate, i am ashamed to note that i actually have no idea what his real name is. from day one, lindsay & i merely referred to him as "the serbian dentist." maybe it's better that way. let's call him s.d. for short.

the morning of 11 march (actually, considering the time difference it was probably 12 march), as news of slobodan's dubious death reached australia, lindsay strolled down to breakfast and spotted s.d. sitting alone at a table. after gathering some food, she plopped down next to him, gave him a playful nudge, and said,

"hey! bet you're glad ol' milošević is dead, huh? all the war crimes & genocide & stuff. eh?"

s.d. looked up slowly from his breakfast, tears welling in his eyes, and quietly responded,

"he was a great leader."

as he goes back to eating, lindsay proceeds to open her mouth and insert her own foot.


in the interest of full disclosure, i will confess that the tears never happened; i just felt the need to take some dramatic liberties with the story. i also found out (via the dirty seductress that is wikipedia) that apparently s.d. is not alone in his opionions. who knew there was a whole well-organised community of them out there? perhaps s.d. himself is a covert ICDSM member. i suppose we'll never know. what i DO know is that i think saying slobodan was a great leader is a bit like saying the janjaweed are great horsemen and no dentist, serbian or otherwise, will ever change my mind.

at any rate, it makes for a hell of a good story, and one that i will never, ever let shofferhoffer live down.

looking for love in all the wrong places

many thanks to lindsay, my parner in crime, for stumbling upon this website on a lazy friday afternoon:

http://www.weirddatingmail.com/

(click on the "categories" links on the left for a comprehensive list of the offending mail).

a variety of emotions are coursing through my brain as i read these e-mails. i have yet to venture into the sordid world of online dating, but part of me wants to take the plunge simply for the potential that gems like these could await me in my inbox after a long day at work. on the other hand, is THIS the shallow, pesticide-contaminated pool that we single people have to fish from these days? are these emotionally-baggaged crazies just fodder for the laughter of us (comparatively) normal people, or have they finally interbred and outnumbered us? are they lurking in their natural match.com habitat, waiting to strike at any moment?

not-so-tangentially, i have been considering the potential benefits of arranged marriage of late. i love my parents, i feel as though we have a healthy and understanding relationship, and i am relatively certain that swen & clowny would pick an excellent husband for me. clowny himself once said, "i don't care if you bring home a biker, just don't bring home an asshole." clearly his standards are of the highest caliber. (and good thing they never met the republican).

my two favourite e-mails are both listed in the UFOs category. the first is labelled from hallmark. the second is entitled and what would those be, when the sender tells the recipient that her ex-boyfriend was "too much of a white supremacist," (don't we all have our own thresholds of white supremacy?) and says, "you'd be amazed about all the things you can do with mashed potato buds."

i have a few interesting uses for mashed potato buds that might amaze some people.

one errant click later...

i was perusing the internet today, looking for some photos of shirtless footy players for a future post (patience, ladies. can't alienate the straight men just yet), when i stumbled upon this article.

i really have no idea what to think, other than wondering how i've never heard of a phenomenon that is apparently common enought to be the subject of a variety of films and books. if you scroll down towards the bottom of the page, you'll see that even dustin hoffman has firsthand experience to share. all i know is that i will certainly be bringing it up in my sexual and reproductive health class next semester. as a side note, i haven't a clue how this topic relates to shirtless footy players in any way, unless the shirtless man in the photo is actually a footy player. thanks, google.

gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, "must be the milkman's baby."

have a happy sexy kwanzaa

the following is a brief excerpt of one of the best conversations i've ever creepily eavesdropped on whilst riding public transport:

(the scene: heading south down swanston st. on the 67 tram. two students, one male & one female, are discussing various public holidays and the probability of actually having a day off from uni for some obscure holiday).

dude: "yeah, we don't even get labour day off this year."
chick: "i wish christmas wasn't during the summer. we would definitely have time off for christmas."
d: "what about that chinese holiday. what's it called...kwanzaa?"
c: "um...do you mean chinese new year?"
d: "no, no, there's definitely some, like, chinese holiday called kwanzaa."
c: "i have no idea what you're talking about."

(at this point, i see no other choice but to interject).

me: "actually, kwanzaa is an african-american holiday."
c: "ha! thank you."
me: "yeah, and it's around christmastime, so you wouldn't get a day off anyway."

the dude silently glowered, no doubt cursing me for hating on a playa's game. i'd also like to add that the chick was asian, so he looked doubly foolish. i considered continuing on into a tutorial about the seven principles of kwanzaa, just to twist the knife, but i didn't want to be too cruel. plus, it would have been more effective had i been wearing my dashiki.

this incident has convinced me that it is imperative that lindsay and i start our own auskwanzaa celebration next year. better enrol in that african drumming club...