Zen And The Art Of Polyphonic Ringtones

2007-01-02T22:39:00.000+11:00

TRUE LOVE

Well, it had to come to this eventually. Over the past two years I've posted (albeit infrequently) about all manner of things on this blog.. Ranging from paranoid theories about the secret life of the Veronicas, right through to tourism campaigns for the wonderful suburb of Dandenong. Up to this point I seem to have side-stepped posting about anything profound, or at least anything topical.. But I've been doing some thinking lately.

Love is a concept which is thrust upon from the very moment we're born. Generally speaking, the first sight we see when we come down the chute is likely to be an enamoured couple, staring deeply into each others eyes, proclaiming their boundless affection for one another. Well.. One of them would probably be crying from pain and exhaustion, while the other tries in vein to distract her from the large amounts of blood covering the sheets.. But you get the gist. Once all the mess is cleaned up, it's time for an onslaught of love and cuteness that would make you ill if you were old enough to know what was going on.

As you mature, you begin to realize the whole thing spreads much further than the bassinet.. It's on TV, at the movies, on the radio.. Attacking you from every angle, planting seeds in your head about co-dependence and microwave ovens. In essence, by the time you reach the age where you can think for yourself, you've pretty much nutted out that your main goal on this planet is to find yourself a nice girl or boy, and move in for the kill. Or approach them politely.. Depending on your disposition.

The problem with this whole love cabal though, is that once you pass your days of high school romance, you discover it's a lot more complex than the Meg Ryan movies make it out to be. Why did that chick who told you that she loved you run off with your best friend? Why is that guy with the nervous twitch constantly staring at you? What's the deal with this rash? Perhaps these aren't the best examples, but you know what I'm getting at. There aren't any knights in shining armour, people don't travel half-way around the world to find each other, and the soundtrack isn't Leonardo's Bride. True love, in the Hollywood sense at least, is far more elusive than we were first lead to believe.

Fortunately I've had a pretty good run up to this point in time. There have been several meaningful and lasting relationships in my life, the majority of which ended on amicable terms. No unwanted pregnancies, no domestic abuse, not even any adultery.. To my knowledge. This past year, though, has been slightly more interesting.. And on numerous occasions it's kinda left me scratching my head, wondering what the fuck is going on. On a case by case basis, they were mostly quite trivial incidents.. But these things have a way of building up in your mind after a while. So, if you'd care to indulge me (whoever you might be), allow me to fire a few questions in your general direction..

1. Is it reasonable for a girl to make out with you wildly at a party, volunteer to give you her number, insist on meeting up, and then feign an air of vague bemusement when you actually decide to do so?

2. I don't believe in God or anything, but is it some kind of cruel, divine irony that the qualities which initially attract us to someone might be the very qualities which end up driving us away?

3. What's the deal with these people who will madly wave their flag of intent, but as soon as you let one idle comment drop about 'possibilities' they run for the hills ranting about confusion and mixed messages?

4. Why is it that it might take two weeks to get over one person, but the best part of a year leaves your feelings for somebody else virtually unchanged?

I'm well aware that we place way too much emphasis on relationships in our society (see this indignant rant), but even whilst bearing that in mind, I've found myself at the emotional mercy of others more times this year than I'd care to admit. Sometimes the feeling lasts only a day or two, whilst in other cases it never really seems to go away. I know that I have the inclination to over think things a little bit, but even with the brain switched off, it's hard to maintain a positive attitude when over-viewing a series of such perplexing events.

Whether our inclination for romance is a product of our experiences, or something far more innate is anyone's guess.. In reality, it's probably a combination of the two. But at the end of it all, I just can't help but wonder - if we weren't so presupposed to the notion of true love, would we be less surprised when things go ass-up? If there were no heights to aspire to or situations to act out, we'd have no expectations - and there's a good chance we'd all be enjoying slightly more buoyant existences. I realize that nobody grows through being deliriously happy, and it's our less pleasurable experiences that ultimately push us to develop and discover more about ourselves.. But every now and then it's nice to just sit a game out.

And as far as the coming year goes, I'm starting to think that might be just what I need.

2006-12-23T01:02:00.001+11:00

Now, I know drawing attention to stupidity in the Herald Sun is like shooting Paris Hilton fans in Supre, but after reading this article I simply couldn't resist.

Essentially, a man by the name of Brett Franklin hit and killed two sisters near Leongatha earlier in the year. Several days before he was charged with the offence, he sold the car through a local trading post, describing it as being "new and in immaculate condition." Apparently he got around $35000 for it, after a local panel beater cleaned up the damage caused by the accident.

The family of the dead sisters said they were sickened that Mr. Franklin had sold the car, and wanted to know if he disclosed it's shocking history. Up to this point, things are still making sense. But then, Trevor, the husband of one of the sisters goes on to say "It makes me feel sick to the stomach to think that someone's driving around out there not knowing this car killed two people."

Right. Obviously there's a third victim in this whole thing that we've overlooked: Young Mr. Franklin. When you find yourself behind the wheel of a death car, you'd better close your eyes and pray to God the gas is about to run out. Otherwise you might as well kiss your sorry ass goodbye.

But hey, let's forget about the car for a second.. If we continue on down this line of reasoning, where does the madness end? The CD he was listening to, the muesli bar he was eating.. I could walk into an op-shop tomorrow and try on a nice pair of pants, completely unaware that I might be about to purchase.. The Death Pants.

And the poor bastard has to live with this for the rest of his life. How the hell are you supposed to entice prospective realtors to take on the 'Death House'? I can see them now, walking newly married couples around the place..

"Now, this is the kitchen.."
"Is this where he ate the death pizza?"
"Uhh.. Yes. Anyway, through to the ensuite.."
"Ooooh! The death shower!"

Etc. So yes, I've probably got sufficient mileage out of this. Pardon the pun. And as far as mediocre journalism goes, it's nothing compared to real issues that are covered in half-assed fashion every week. But you've gotta admit, even by Herald Sun standards, this is some pretty piss-weak stuff.

2006-10-31T20:17:00.002+11:00

KAFKA VS. ROB SCHNEIDER

To say that I'm not the biggest fan of Rob Schneider's work is probably an understatement.. There's just something about his humour that I don't get. Until recently, I put this down to the themes he chooses to deal with in his films.. Human metamorphosis has never really piqued my interest, regardless of whether the man involved is turning into an animal, a hot chick, or even a carrot. But then I stumbled across the works of Franz Kafka. In 1915, Kafka wrote one of the classic works of the 20th Century, Metamorphosis. In this short story, a man by the name of Gregor wakes up one morning to discover that he's been transformed into a giant insect.

As the piece progresses, it details his ongoing transformation, and how he learns to adjust to his newfound urges, body and senses. The crux of the story hangs on Gregor's ability (or inability) to deal with how other people now perceive him, and his struggle to adapt in a world where he has become an outcast. Essentially, Kafka uses this surreal concept to muse on the nature of disability, disfigurement, and other misfortunes which may invavriably alienate people from society. You can probably see where I'm going with this, so I'll save you the pain of having to go through a rather tedious segue way..

In the Rob Schneider film The Animal, the central character, Marvin, is injured in a car accident, and in the process of recuperation, his doctor slips him an animal organ or two. I'm not sure how commonplace this procedure is, but let's not get bogged down in details. Schneider's got the dog bladder, and thus the fun begins. Before you know it, he's leaping through the air catching frisbees in his mouth, hangin' large with monkeys at the local zoo, and sniffing a good few crotches along the way. Marvin's transformation is nowhere near as seemingly random as that of Kafka's Gregor, but if you minus the champagne comedy stylings of Schneider, you've basically got the same story.

So.. What's the deal? Is it possible that Schneider is attempting to bring the themes of Kafka's work to a broader audience? The answer would seem to be a resounding no, but then I could be missing something. Rob's films are frequently lumped in with those of Adam Sandler, and if you've ever seen their respective material on Saturday Night Live, you'll agree this is grossly unfair. Still, as good as Schneider's work on airplane peanuts was, I'm not entirely convinced he's got this sort of stuff in him.

Short of rifling through the three different audio commentaries available on The Animal DVD, I'm thinking this might be one of those mysteries best left unsolved. At the very least, it's an interesting example of how two people can pretty much get ahold of the same idea, and whilst one of them uses it to create a timeless work of art, the best the other can manage is a poorly crafted hodgepodge of forgettable one-liners. Though, it was written nearly a century ago, so I should probably cut the guy a little slack.

2006-09-22T21:26:00.001+10:00

R.I.P. JOHN HOWARD

What's going on? Is there something in the air? It seems our national icons are dropping like flies at the moment. First Steve Irwin is taken out by a stingray, and then Peter Brock is taken out by a tree. Obviously Brock was driving at a suitable speed and had complete control of the vehicle when the incident occurred, as I'm sure Irwin was behaving in a mature and orderly fashion around the stingray. But I'm not here to wax nostalgic on either of these guys. It's often been said that things come in threes, which leaves me to ponder the rather obvious question: Who's next?

They'd have to be an Australian icon for starters.. They'd have to be male, and most importantly, they'd have to die doing what they love. Now, I don't know if you believe in karmic alignment, omens and the like, or if you're a ruthlessly scientific type. Either way, I think you could agree (both of you) that it would be a tragedy of biblical proportions if the third lightning bolt were to strike the cranium of the most iconically Australian man ever, John Howard. It's far from my place to ask why this would happen, God forbid, but what I am curious about is the situation in which it's likely to occur. In other words, if the third man has to die doing what he loves, and that man was Howard, how would it go down?

It was a struggle to find anything that this man seems to genuinely enjoy, but after much deliberation, I've managed to come up with three basic scenarios.

A) Photo opportunity with George Bush backfires

This seemed to be the most obvious option. Howard's not a man of many smiles, but there's something about being in George's presence that brings out the best in him, especially when the camera lights up. The only snag here is that I have no idea how a photograph could kill a man. Perhaps the flash could trigger a chemical reaction in his retina, which would in turn send a series of high-voltage shocks to his cerebral lobe, slowly short-circuiting his nervous system until his heart gave in under the weight of the trauma. Either that or some kid behind the barricade could throw a rock at his head.

B) Vigorous morning stroll turns deadly

Howard does a lot of walking, and by golly he seems to enjoy it. This is a slightly more realistic scenario than above, as there are a million ways a man can die whilst walking down a footpath. An out-of-control lorry could come careering up the embankment and destroy him on impact, a swarm of flesh-eating locusts could suddenly descend on his quiet, inner-city suburb, devouring the skin of anyone who gets in their way, or he could trip on some uneven paving and crack his skull open. Though the most likely option, I'd hate to be the council responsible for the sidewalk. The law-suites that would ensue would make Steve Vizard seem like a pretty funny guy.

C) Faulty wiring results in dead air

Sorry. Couldn't resist. But, if there's one thing that Howard loves more than Bush photos and constipated morning walks put together, it's talking on breakfast radio. Who knows? Maybe it's the smell of the microphone, the quality of the coffee, or the seemingly endless stream of supportive phone calls.. But old Johnny looks like a clam in chowder when he's behind that microphone. The great thing about this set-up is that he's surrounded by a ridiculous amount of electrical equipment. At any moment one of the devices could malfunction, sending a plethora of lethal currents on a collision course with everything inside the padded booth. And this would be perfect, because there'd be both audio and visual documentation of the precise moment that the PM died. Plus, as noted above, there would be endless possibilities for headlines with bad puns.

Anyway.. As far as things that Howard appears to enjoy, these are the most likely candidates. I could've made some cheap, sarcastic quip about screwing the poor, setting the global perception of our country back fifty years, or reducing the fundamental ideals of the Australian way of life to a smouldering hole in the ground, but that would have just been childish. If you can think of a scenario that I may have overlooked, please feel free to contribute. Don't be shy.. It's not like we're indulging some kind of morbid fantasy here. I think I speak for all of us when I say that no one in the world deserves these misfortunes to befall them, and I certainly wouldn't wish them upon anyone.. No matter who they are.

2006-08-17T15:46:00.002+10:00

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE VERONICAS

Dear Veronicas,

First of all, let me get the obligatory gushing fan stuff out of the way. Great, now we can get onto more pressing issues. I understand that every pop act needs to have an image. It's been going on since the fifties, and it's certainly not going to change any time soon. Some artists take to an image like a duck to water.. Westlife, for example; happy-go-lucky fellas just out for a good time. They sold three albums on this premise, and brought joy into the lives of teenage girls all over the world. Unfortunately though, images will invariably run their course.. Making people happy is fairly un-cool at the moment, so the lads had to re-invent themselves. Aware that turning into a hardcore rap group might not be the smoothest of transitions, Westlife chose to abandon their audience of young teenage girls. Their new target: the mothers of the young teenage girls. Nice one.

Other artists seem to have a slightly harder time of it. Take Human Nature. Poor guys. It seems that everywhere they turn, someone else has beaten them to it. First there was the Backstreet Boys idea. Then the 98 Degrees idea. Then the N'Sync idea, complete with video clip where the screen shook when they jumped on the floor. Now they seem to think they're The Temptations. And in between every image adjustment, they always find the time to go on the Today show and sing that Earth Angel song acapella. Yet, as muddled and ever changing as their image is, I can always get my head around it. And I guess this is why I'm writing to you..

Now, I understand the sister thing.. S2S milked that to critical acclaim a couple of years back. And I totally get the whole lesbian thing.. I think Tatu showed us all what a profitable market that was. But to try and pull both of these off at once? I know you, like, haven't kissed or anything like that.. Because that's like, eww.. But you do seem to hold hands a lot, and I think I'm yet to see a photo shoot where yours bodies aren't pressed up against each other, or at least touching in some way. Initially, the idea of an incestuous female couple storming the pop charts kinda left an unsavoury taste in my mouth. But then I tried to put myself inside the head of your average teenage boy. I watched some football, ate some Maccas, started thinking about those twins next door.. Bam. There it is. The ultimate semi-pubescent male fantasy.

In short, I think you're onto a real winner here. And the fact that you've survived for well over a year without any rumours of boyfriends surfacing says a lot about your dedication. I only hope for your sake that this whole thing doesn't fizzle out as quickly as barber-shop did, otherwise a duet with John Farnham is on the cards, and it's all down hill from there.

Best wishes for the future,

Alex.

2006-07-21T12:42:00.000+10:00

Well, it had to happen eventually.. I always wondered whether or not I actually had a conscience. Many a time I've found myself saying "Geeze Millwood, I think you should probably feel at least a little guilty about this..", but it doesn't ensue. It's not that I don't have awareness of what is morally acceptable; a healthy upbringing on Seinfeld has seen to that. But, I don't know.. Sometimes situations arise where I think I should feel some remorse for my thoughts or actions, and there's simply nothing there. It seems then, like some sort of cruel poetic justice that I should feel guilty for thoughts I've been having about this man.. This stupid, stupid man.

As many of you may know, Stan Zemanek was diagnosed with a malignant brain tumour a little while back. Despite undergoing a rigorous course of radiation therapy, it's still thought there's a good chance he may not survive. Stan's main claim to fame is a talkback show on AM station 2UE, which we here in Melbourne are fortunate enough not to receive. It's everything that you might expect from someone who describes their profession as "shock jock".. Just like John Laws, but with less embezzlement and more expletives. Stan also had a brief stint as host of the TV show Beauty and the Beast, where he comparatively appeared to be quite balanced. But hey, Tony Abbott would come across as balance personified when sitting next to this woman.

I digress. There is a stigma attached to certain misfortunes like cancer, AIDS, or even rape.. It is dictated that we should never wish these things upon anyone, and if someone should happen to fall victim to them, we should hold nothing but humane thoughts for the person involved.. No matter how inhumane the person might be. To be brutally honest, my initial reaction to hearing about Stan's cancer was "Well, that's just delicious.. Maybe there is a God!" Which upon reflection, may have been a little lacking in compassion. But this is exactly where my crisis of conscience lies, and it started to get me thinking about how honest other peoples' responses to things like this are.

Often our immediate thoughts are quite different from what we finally resolve to think. We are strongly aware of the stance that would be deemed morally acceptable by the broader population.. So we are presented with an afterthought to our initial response; the final stance that we take on an issue can be greatly affected by the knowledge of what the decent thing to think would be. So we either end up reappraising our opinions, or at least finding a resolve between the two governing forces. I'm not saying that reflecting on one's beliefs or opinions isn't healthy, and I'm certainly not saying that I think it'd be a better world if everybody acted on impulse. But abandoning a thought for something we've been taught is more appropriate.. That's a different beast altogether. If somebody said "Oh, poor Stan.. I feel so sorry for him", would they actually mean it? Or would they be belying their thoughts just to sound like a good, compassionate person?

At any rate, I'm stuck.. A huge part of me has no sympathy for this man whatsoever, and if you've ever heard him in action, you'll completely understand why. If you'd called Stan a year ago and told him you had cancer, there's a good chance he'd have told you to get over yourself and have a cry to someone who cares.. You pansy. It's mopers like you that are the problem with this.. Well, you get the idea. And hey, he effectively said the same thing to Chas Licciardello from The Chaser when he called up pretending to be a young man suffering from clinical depression. Of course if you called him now and told him you had cancer he'd become a beacon of compassion, but then if his own son had clinical depression he probably would've done the same for Chas. And the thing that fucks me off more than anything about him is that I know he couldn't possibly be like his persona in real life.. The majority of his career is an act, a poorly formed caricature with very little afterthought. But, this is his draw card.. The majority of his audience probably haven't given a second thought to what sort of a person he might actually be, because it's attitude that they've come to hear, not sensible, considered opinions.

I'd like to think that in lieu of recent events young Stan might take a moment of quiet reflection, and consider some of the choices he's made up to this point. Sorry, that was in poor taste. Anyway, apparently he's already back at work, kicking skulls as though he was never gone. Which pretty much puts me right back where I started.. Sitting in front of a computer trying to muster some nice words for a man who may well die within the year. The closest thing I can think of is "Well, I'm sure he's a nice guy behind the facade.." But for me, that's even worse. If he was legitimately stupid and offensive, I wouldn't give him a second thought. But to consciously perpetuate a character like that.. Kinda puts the kibosh on any inclination I might have towards being nice.

2006-05-10T15:04:00.000+10:00

It may come as some surprise to you that in my formative years I was quite an avid East 17 fan. I didn't have dog stickers all over my bedroom door or buy socks to stuff my beanie with, but I was down with the Walthamstow groove and not afraid to show it. As time passed however, I gradually began to lose interest in the boys. Some might argue that it's simply something you grow out of, like bed-wetting or football.. But in all fairness, their last album really wasn't much chop.

One night around three years back I started to reminisce about the glory days, and decided to create a chain letter protesting their untimely demise. I forwarded it to everyone in my address book, and asked that anyone who shared my view add his or her name and address to the list. I heard nothing back, and as the days went on, I began to feel that my pleas had fallen on deaf ears. But yesterday, with thanks to an anonymous tipster, I received the news that all of us have been waiting so long to hear:

East 17 comeback gig - May 30, 2006!

Former East 17 star Tony Mortimer insists pop rival Robbie Williams would never have lasted in his boy band - because they were too hardcore. Mortimer, who will perform a comeback gig with his East 17 band mates in London on 30 May (06), claims the group's outrageous rock 'n roll lifestyle would have been too much for their tamer 1990's rivals Take That. He reveals his frantic years in the band had a severe effect on both his mental and physical health. He says, "Robbie and the other Take That boys would not have lasted five minutes in East 17 - it was so full on that we nearly didn't make it. We killed off boy bands. But East 17 almost destroyed me. Three years of working seven days a week and not knowing where you are and what day it is takes its toll. At the end I was anorexic. I was over 6 foot tall and weighed nine stone. East 17 almost ruined me, which is why I kept saying no to reuniting. Towards the end I hid away after gigs and when the band split up I became really agoraphobic. If you walk out of the house every day and hundreds of people mob you it has a mental effect."

(taken from Contactmusic.com)

Heartfelt words, and a timely reminder that even the most glamorous stardom has its down sides. But, there you have it. In a little over two weeks, the planets will align, and East 17 will perform the come-back gig to end all come-back gigs. Anyone who doubted the legitimacy of their bad boy image must be feeling pretty sheepish right now.. And despite the fact that the rather clean cut picture above doesn't match the golden days of...

... I have no doubt that the attitude is still there. I don't want to get all nostalgic on you here, but really, if Peter Andre can re-launch his career with a song he'd already released 8 years earlier, I feel that this reunion is long overdue. And with some water under the bridge, perhaps they'll finally let us in on what was meant by the rather cryptic comments one can hear when you play "It's Alright" backwards*.

Disregarding the possibility that my e-mail actually had nothing to do with this concert, I think there's a nice little moral here. I wonder which long lost nineties hit machine I should set my sights on next.. La Bouche? The Rednex? MC Sar and The Real McCoy? So many choices. But before I go making any waves, I might just wait and see how this caper plays out. For all we know, it could be a huge let down. I can just see the clip to the 2006 remix of 'House of Love' with Snoop Dogg shakin' his booty across my TV screen. "Every bizzle in the hizzle.." Urgh... There's a good chance it could end badly.

But, it poses an interesting question: If you could see any defunct pop iconoclast re-animated, who would you choose?

* Don't ask how I came to discover this, but if you play the bridge to "It's Alright" in reverse, you hear something that sounds like "Forget the things he used to say, he will never leave us." Seriously.

2006-04-27T15:34:00.000+10:00

DANDENONG - THE LAST GREAT COMMUNITY (OR, Millwood attempts to draw tenuous links between corporations and the state of social decay)

As you may know, I've worked at a record store in the mighty Dandenong Massive for almost two years now, and it's certainly had its fair share of low points. Drunks, prostitutes, rambunctious children, drunk prostitutes with rambunctious children, and even voodoo witch doctors looking for ABBA cassettes*. It's quite a melting pot really. But there's one aspect of this fine suburb that didn't occur to me until this afternoon.

Having grown up in Huntingdale; half way between Clayton and Oakleigh, I've become accustomed to a melange of cultures and races. This mixture of minorities tends to lead to a fairly strong sense of community.. On Saturday the Italian men sit around smoking cigars out the front of the cafe` while their wives do the shopping. Retailers will frequently visit each other’s stores and chat for a while. Groups of women will get their nails done at the same salon on the same day each week. My mother, for example has been going to a local coffee lounge for around ten years now, and is on a first name basis with not only the staff, but most of the regular customers too. Just walking through the mall you'll see random people stopping and talking, asking about each other’s lives and what not. I realize this is all sounding a tad Edward Scissorhands, but don't worry, I haven’t succumb to Howard's fifties ideals. Yet. That said, I can't help but feel that this kind of communal interaction is gradually becoming a thing of the past.

Whilst serving one of our more pestilent regulars today, another customer sidled up to the counter. The two exchanged handshakes and shoulder pats, and continued to chat for the next forty minutes. Eventually they left, and I locked the store to go and do some ~~shopping~~ research at JB Hi-Fi. When I returned they were still hanging around, and had also been joined by several others. I'm fairly sure I overheard them discussing the various ways you can paralyse a man in under five seconds, but that's besides the point. This scene initially struck me as odd, but then so did my reaction.. To that. As being odd. *cough* I digress..

For as long as I can remember, Coles Fosseys has been the centre point of the shopping strip in Clayton.. Until last year when they suddenly closed, and were replaced by an Officeworks. Great! Just what you need in a quiet, centralized, lower class suburb.. A huge fuck-off warehouse for office supplies. Seems like a strange decision, right? Perhaps not.. Both Fosseys and Officeworks are owned by Coles Myer, who own at least four or five major stores in every shopping centre. Obviously they decided the area was not viable enough to monopolise, and went for the next best option; force the people to do their shopping outside of the area. It's not surprising that Clayton's a tad on the quiet side during the week now. After all, Chadstone is relatively near by, and they have Powerhouse, Coles, Myer, Target, K Mart, Liquorland and Bi-Lo.. Way more choices, all owned by the same company.

See? It's going on all over the place. Believe it or not, that's Frankston in the picture.. Recently 'revamped'. Though to be fair, that suburb totally needed a Borders, another cinema, and at least twenty more places where you can buy a muffin big enough to kill a man. Sure, the social environment may appear more clean and orderly**, but I can't help but feel those are just euphemisms for sterile and generic. And whether people consciously realize it or not, it eventually takes effect.. You could probably find the cigar-smoking Italian guy from Clayton wandering around Chadstone right about now. His friends are probably in there too somewhere, ambling about with the same glazed look over their eyes. I know I'm labouring the point pretty hard, but really, when I look out the window and see so many random people interacting so freely, in a suburb that is supposed to be the ass-end of Melbourne, I can't help but scratch my chin.

Lastly, I think the actual 'corporate mentality' has a fair bearing on the situation too. Independent businesses are owned and run by the people who, well, own and run the business. So it stands to reason that they're going to have a vested interest in building rapport with their customers, and in the process, generating a good image for their product. It's pretty hard for 14 year old Susanne working at Muffin Break to give even a miniscule of a fuck about who she serves. She's getting payed bugger all, and is only there so she can gain a semblance of self-sufficiency. She couldn't care about the business, realistically the business couldn't care about her, and the customer becomes a mere statistic in the process. I realize all this has probably been covered on Today Tonight a hundred times over (usually when there's no 'shonky builder steals from fat kid' story floating about), but I think I may have finally found a level upon which I can appreciate Dandenong. And that is something to be proud of.

* One afternoon, covered in full body paint, chakras, and the obligatory Indian 'third eye', a dishevelled man in his forties foretold the prophecy of the legendary tenth planet, from which the purple Italians would arrive to buy out all our AC/DC cassettes. Apparently they're coming back for the ABBA ones next, and that's why he was so keen to get his hands on them. I wish I was making this up.

** As proclaimed by the Mayor of Frankston, Vicki McClelland in a recent issue of the Monash Leader.

NOTE: Yes, Dandenong too has an ever-growing shopping mall at it's nexus. But the majority of stores in the area are still independent and family run. For the time being, anyway..

2006-04-26T14:46:00.000+10:00

A MONTH IN THE LIFE OF MILLWOOD (PART ONE)

Well.. This is what it's come to. It seems my blogging apathy has hit dizzying new heights. So, in a vein attempt to regain some semblance of control over the situation, I am sadly about to subject you to one of those "and then this happened, and then we went there, and we thought were going to go here but we didn't, then we did.." style entires. I really am sorry. But, desperate times call for unpleasant measures.

It's been an interesting month, to say the least. Some predictable lows, and some rather surprising highs. Obviously the return of Big Brother falls into the latter category, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that the "all looks, no brains" approach to last season has been abandoned for a far more interesting and diverse collective of housemates. For starters they've introduced the token Asian, and an apparent world first with a mother and daughter combo, who've both had boob jobs. Golden. But more on that later..

Our story starts a month or so back, and on fairly shaky ground. The initial plan was to go out for a few quiet drinks with a mate. Over a series of phone calls and bafflingly bad decisions, this gradually transformed into "let's hit the city and pick up some hot chicks" with a group of bong-smoking, white-supremacist acquaintances from primary school. I know what you're thinking.. "Oh Millwood, off on one of his white supremacist rants again." Ah, so quick to judge. But I'm afraid you can't argue with shaved heads, tattoos, and conversations where the themes of American History X are heartily endorsed. So, the evening had trolley poll written all over it. I won't bore you with the trivial details, but essentially by midnight we found ourself at Transport*, and I had spent the preceding hours thinking through the scenarios I could use to escape.. Grandma is ill, think I forgot to feed the parrot, strange feeling hungry parrot is pissed and trying to kill Grandma.. But no dice.

I had become embroiled in a discussion about the injustices of being denied entry because you're wearing a wife-beater, when I realized there was only going to be one civil way out of the evening.. I approached the closest strangers, who happened to be a pair of girls sitting at the table across from us. I gave them a brief rundown of my situation, and asked out of compassion if they could just pretend to know me for a few minutes, so as I could regain my composure. Three hours later, I'd abandoned the idea of returning to the group (who had left to find a place where the chicks were hotter), and was having a fantastic time. We tackled all the big issues; Billy Ray Cyrus, '80's music, and guys who wear pink polo shirts. I didn't end up getting home 'till around 6, and was in a fairly unfortunate state for work the next morning, but ended up having an absolute blast. I'm not suggesting you can always depend on the kindness of strangers, but I do find it comforting to know that even the most brutal of evenings may only be a table or two away from a great night.

I know, terrible photo. Particularly considering I'm the middle. As the night progressed though, it seemed Tanya (actual middle) was somewhat inspired by our discussion about pink shirts, and she took it upon herself to track down one of these creatures and see what makes them tick. Brave girl. But in the wash up, it seems that all Pink Shirt needs for a satisfying night is "some good beats, some good beers, and some good ladies."

Amen brother. Stavros was quite the ladies man too, as I watched him try a variety of moves on our girl. Collar up, collar down, purchasing drinks, all the classic dance moves, and even a somewhat credible story about his lucrative job in the packaging industry. Luckily she was able to resist his charms though, and managed to find her way back to the table. Just in time to continue an in-depth analysis of the works of Adam Ant.

Now, I realize you're probably thinking.. "Pretty boring story Millwood.. Why on Earth would you blog about this?" Well, you're a tough crowd. But I think anyone who's ever found themselves stuck amongst a group of rednecks hell-bent on scoring ass and starting punch-ons with German tourists at seedy backpacker hostels can appreciate the relief of finding escape from the situation. And let's face it, we've all been there at some point in time. Right?

But enough.. I don't want to give you anecdote overload. I'll post Part 2 shortly; in which Millwood discovers the hidden powers of Cold Chisel, the unfortunate effects of Absinth, and the nerdy world of meeting fellow Bloggers.

* For those readers from interstate, Transport is the likely equivalent of your local bar / pub which has that stigma attached to it.

2006-02-16T09:38:00.000+11:00

Well. Today is the day. In a couple of hours, a conscience vote in the House of Representatives will determine whether the fate of the abortion drug RU486 will rest with the Therapeutic Goods Administration, or our dear friend Tony Abbott. I know it's unlike me to go busting political caps in your dome, but after witnessing one of the most disgraceful speeches I've ever seen last night, the rage is boiling over.

See? Just the sight of him is enough to send you running for your fridge magnet.

Over the years I've become accustomed to his passive lying, arrogant stupidity, and painfully conservative far-right stance on pretty much everything. Last night, however, he took it up a notch. Many of you may be aware of the genuinely heart-felt speech that Peter Costello made earlier in the day, telling of the difficult decision he had to make when his pregnant wife lapsed into unconsciousness as a result of a brain abscess. He was advised that the pregnancy may hamper efforts to treat the problem, and without treatment, she may die. In essence, the old question of your baby's life or yours. I believe Neighbours is running a similar theme at the moment. Who said they weren't on the pulse?

I digress. In the end, Costello chose to do nothing, and by good fortune, both his wife and the child survived. He finished by saying that it was the hardest decision he's ever had to make, but he believes people should have the right to make that decision for themselves. I was really impressed. But wait.. Then Abbott comes moseying along. Guns a blazin', he proceeded to declare that Australia's abortion rate is a "legacy of unutterable shame". You know that habbit he has of repeating the same sentence over and over and making the chopping motion with his arm? Well, that kinda made up the bulk of his arguement. Sure it was dramatic, but for some reason it just didn't resonate with me. So...

Always a fan of a good, subtle hand of poker, Abbott has now clearly stated that if the fate of the drug falls into his hands, it will not see the light of day. I think the thing that frustrates me most about this.. Well, actually there's several things, but foremost, is that he's taken quite a base, democratic issue, and turned it into a meat-headed argument about the morals of abortion. Perhaps there's something about this kind of Christian right-winger, say, delusion on a grand scale, that won't allow them to rest comfortably with their views being their own. If you don't agree with the practice of abortion, fine. I respect that. But what makes you think you can go around imposing these views upon other people? We might be stupid, hell, some of us don't even mind those suss lookin' Muslim bastards.. But we retain the right to make our stupid, hell-bound decisions for ourselves. I know I'm getting all nostalgic now, but was democracy really that bad?

Anyway, the cards are down. What was once going to be a straight-forward vote for presiding power over the availability of RU486 has become, in essence, a vote for or against the right to abortion. Good on ya Tony. I'm sure your son would be proud of you. Wherever he is..

UPDATE: By an overwhelming majority, the bill to hand power of decision over to the TGA has been passed. My dwindling faith in our Parliamentary system has been restored. Partially. Well, a tiny bit. Okay not at all. But I think this is definitely a good result. And I must admit, I love the subtextual comment this makes on the ammount of faith Tony Abbott's colleagues have in him.

2005-11-28T16:31:00.001+11:00

A couple of days back I undertook quite the novel experience. You know all those advertisements insistently telling us that now is the time to become an Australian citizen? Oh come on.. You know, the one where there's an Asian girl, and an Indian family, and they all look strangely Westernised? Like they've been here for three or four generations? That's the one.. Well, it seems that they've had their way with my father, because he finally decided to become a legitimate Australian. It turns out the bastard has been living here on a bastardised British passport for the past 45 years, which I always felt uncomfortable about. He wouldn't even let me fly an Australian flag from our balcony, and don't get me started on the bangers and mash for dinner each night..

But that's in the past now.

We arrived at the council chambers to the sounds of Men At Work's 'Down Under', to be shortly followed by a Slim Dusty rendition of 'Waltzing Matilda'. It took around half an hour for everyone to arrive, find their allocated seats, and play around with their digital cameras until the batteries ran out. The potential citizens were given the option to take the oath in the name of God, or take it Godless. My father had chosen the Godless option, so he was crammed up the back with the other five or six soul-less people devoid of spirituality. Things got rolling quite pleasantly, but took a rather ugly turn around the 10 minute mark..

Enter 40 year old woman in floral dress sporting acoustic guitar. Eyes dart around the room nervously; people desperately trying to comfort each other in a non-verbal fashion. Said floral guitar lady starts to play. A brief sigh of relief as the room realizes her guitar skills are not too shabby. Relief only lasts an instant, as floral guitar lady begins to sing I am Australian in a warbly, falsetto voice, missing the high notes by a suburb or two, but still managing to render any light fixtures in the building useless. Heads emerge from hands momentarily, before the chorus is repeated once more, and then once more again. As brutal as I found the entire ordeal, which probably only lasted around 2 minutes, it was genuinely heart-warming to see so many people from so many different cultures, equally appalled by what they had just witnessed. It was enough to bring a tear to your eye. And your gun out of its holster.

The rest of the affair was relatively subdued, as the mayor made his way about the crowd shaking hands, handing out certificates, and various other items of commemoration. For declaring his loyalty to Australia, my dad received:

1 x paper Australian flag affixed to a well-carved twig
1 x tree to plant in honour of his legitimate citizenship
1 x clip on koala intended for use with either tree or flag

This was all well and good, but I still feel that a far more appropriate gift would have been:

Acutally, that's a slight revision of my initial stance, which was that no one should be allowed citizenship until they can recite the lyrics to Khe Sanh. I realize now that may be a little heavy handed, as many people prefer Jimmy Barnes' solo work. Then there's the Farnham crowd, but I presume there would be a separate ceremony for them.. Kind of like the God / Godless situation mentioned earlier.

To cap off the evening, my dad actually got a special mention in the mayor's closing speech, as being the longest standing resident of Australia in the room. I cheered and whistled inapropriately, much to the annoyance of the suited couple in front of me. Though I suspect they were already irritated about their digital camera batteries.

So, now it begins. Let there be barbeques and Fosters in the Summer, footy and Chisel in the winter, and stubby shorts with wife-beater singlets all year round. Yes, I am proud to call my father Australian.

2005-11-09T14:34:00.000+11:00

I think it's time to steer this blog away from the grand tag spectacular, and back to the usually high level of philosophical musings. Hence, I choose to tackle a question that has been plaguing society for at least two decades: Is Molly Ringwald really attractive? With the careful guidance of director John Hughes, Molly rose to stardom in the '80's, headlining such films as The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles and Pretty In Pink. With a following so strong, and essentially the same cast (and plot) in every film, Ringwald and her co-stars became affectionately known as the Brat Pack.

What makes this seemingly simple question a tad complicated, however, is the fact that Ms. Ringwald has undergone more 'revitalizing' transformations than you can poke a pair of cross-colours at.

A) Most of you will remember our girl Molly as looking something like this. A little awkward, a little painful, yet strangely appealing. Shut up.

B) Then we enter phase two, where she chose to adopt a slightly more seductive persona. Unfortunately this picture makes her look more like a mother who adopted out her children and wants back in on the action. But you get the drift.

C) In her darkest hour, we witness Molly turning to the windswept, dangerous girl image. Rumour has it that this photo shoot was conducted around the same time as the initial casting for Charmed, so there may have been a method to her madness.

D) Now we enter end game. Today, we find Molly to be your standard, run of the mill, short-haired, small time Hollywood celebrity. It would appear that after some turbulent times, she finally succumbed to the system.

Although age may not have afforded her the greatest of consideration, for the majority of us, when we hear the name Molly Ringwald, we think something like this:

Take some time to carefully consider the material.. Are the latter superficial blunders enough to outweigh her childhood prominence? Was there any childhood prominence in the first place? Or did you prefer the short nerdy guy? There are many factors to consider. Once you have done so, I implore you to Cast Your Votes.

2005-11-06T15:25:00.000+11:00

Well, well.. It would appear that I've been tagged. It's probably a good thing too, as my posts lately have been a tad non-existent. In any event, I hereby present 20 facts about myself for your reading pleasure /displeasure.

1. My full name is Alexander Dennis Lesley Mills. My father's name is Dennis, and his father's name is also Dennis. Word has it that I too was very nearly a Dennis.. Which means I could have been Dennis Dennis Lesley Mills III. What a prolific life I could have led. Did I mention my mother's name is Denise?

2. My parents are polar opposites. My father is inhibited, philosophical, and a bit of a snob. My mother is bubbly, befriends anyone who comes within a 10 metre radius, and has around 800 garments of clothing. Despite this, they have not had a single argument in the 27 years that they've been married.

3. We have a cat who goes by the name of Muffin. "I bet she's a cute little girl!", I hear you think. What a stupid thing to say. Besides, Muffin is a boy. The poor bastard.. It just started hanging around one afternoon, and my mother chose to name it before we even knew what sex it was. Recently he was simultaneously diagnosed with FIV (the feline equivalent of HIV), and skin cancer on his ears. So, we did what we could, and now he looks like a ferret.

4. Much like Brother Surly, I too have had a reoccurring dream since I was a child. It involves me standing in what I could only describe as a black void, surrounded by hundreds of huge coloured spheres. For the duration of the dream, an unidentified man is yelling at the top of his lungs.. He doesn't really say anything, just makes a lot of noise. I guess there's an angsty side to me I've yet to get in touch with.

5. For the majority of my youth, I listened exclusively to dance music. Some of the earliest songs I can remember liking are 'Pump Up The Jam' by Technotronic, 'Another Night' by MC Sar and The Real McCoy, and 'There's a Party' by DJ Bobo. My passion for the music was so strong that I ended up becoming bell monitor in grade 5, and subjected the poor little tackers to bullshit techno at the end of every lunch break.. You've never seen kids fall into line so quickly.

6.This is DJ Bobo.

7. Throughout my high school years, I was a DJ on an aspirant radio station called Pulse FM. Every Saturday and Sunday afternoon I tormented the youth of Melbourne with all manor of awful dance music, and I loved it. I recently discovered some old tapes of my shows, and the early ones are hilarious.. "Umm.m.. Hi, you're on.. Err.r.... Pulse, and... *cough* I'm.. *shuffles papers*, Umm.m.. Alex.. That was.... It... Technotronic there, with..."

8. In recent times my eyes were opened to the shallowness of the 'dance culture', and now I preside over a healthy collection of jazz, '70's rock, and non-dancy electronic music. I can get into most anything that has some passion and creativity behind it, but those seem to be the genres I'm most readily drawn too. Oh, and progressive rock of course.. Why settle for one keyboard when you can have six?

9. I have been dating this girl for around 7 months now, and things seem to be going nicely.. Well, despite a passion for Hanson which has nearly torn us apart on several occasions. I keep telling her she needs to accept me for who I am.. I mean, they're my bedroom walls, and I can put up whatever posters I want to... Right?

10. As much as I hate to admit it, I really am a bit of an elitist.. I am aware of this, and struggle against it on a daily basis. Not to point the parental finger of blame, bur from a very early age it was chiselled into my brain that the majority of people are wrong about the majority of issues the majority of the time. This gave me a pretty bleak view of democracy.. Not that that's something we need to worry about now anyway. I'd like to think that I'm getting better, but the fact that I own every early Pink Floyd album except Dark Side Of The Moon would indicate otherwise... People can be pretty contrived when they want to be.

11. I'm aware of the irony here, but one of the qualities that irritate me most in people is a heightened sense of self-perception. People like to have an image carved out for themselves.. "I listen to this kind of music, I wear these kind of clothes.. I am this." I think it's quite easy to limit ourselves in our interests for the sake of consistency, because it feels neat and concise. I'm not suggesting that I love erratic, unpredictable people.. But I think it takes strength of character to be who you are, really, inconsistencies and all.

12. I hardly ever read books. Perhaps my parents bought me too many golden books as a child and I became addicted to the pictures, but for some reason I just can't find the motivation.. I'm aware that there are many great books out there that I should look into, and would probably love. The last book I read was Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and it took me way longer that it should have.. I've just started Consolations of Philosophy by Alain De Botton.

13. I've only ever cheated on a girl once. We went out for around three months, and the relationship ended when I chose to tell her that I had been seeing her best friend for the past month. *insert Jerry Springer joke here* I've never felt so awful in all my life.. It actually made me physically ill. As much as I hated myself at the time, in retrospect I don't actually regret it.. I think I learnt a hell of a lot from the situation, and would never even contemplate doing something like it again.

14. In case you haven't noticed, I have an unhealthy fixation with Peter Andre and East 17. Although I did like them as a child, there's no rational explanation for my ongoing interest.. Perhaps it's a chemical imbalance of some sort?

15. Cicadas scare the hell out of me. I had one land on my arm once at a bus-stop, and by the time I'd finished my performance several people were reaching for their phones. I'm more than aware that they can't possibly cause me any harm, but there's just something unsettling about an insect that fucking big. I feel the same way about photos of mutant spiders and whatnot.. It's surprising that I enjoyed Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes so much.

16. This is a token entry, but my favourite films are Adaptation, Walkabout, Naked Lunch, Mulholland Drive, and most recently, Gerry. I think film as a medium is pretty much finished though.. I mean, Hillary Duff has four films coming out next year, but she can't support the entire industry by herself.

17. I'm a bit of a pack rat. I find it hard to get rid of anything that has emotional or nostalgic value. I still have the majority of my dance CDs, despite the fact that I will probably never listen to them again.. I have draws of clothes dating back to the days when it was the shit to wear shirts five sizes too big, and a box of miscellaneous romantic material, such as love letters, photos, and for some reason, a spatula.

18. I'm currently spearheading an initiative to bring the word Insania into the English diallect. For more information, see fact 14.

19. I have quite a penchant for Italian horror films from the seventies. Titles in my collection at the moment include Zombie, Zombie Flesh Eaters, Zombie 2, The City Of The Living Dead, Oasis Of The Zombies, Zombie Holocaust, Cannibal Holocaust, Cannibal Ferox, Night Of The Living Dead, Dawn Of The Dead, Day Of The Dead, Hell Of The Living Dead, The Living Dead at The Manchester Morgue, A Virgin Among the Living Dead, and The House By The Cemetery. There's a lot more out there, but I'm trying to be selective.

20. A couple of years back I was working at a fitness centre in Frankston. One day, whilst on my smoke break, I was approached by a girl wearing a school dress. She was probably around 16. She stood there and looked at me for a moment, then asked me for a cigarette. I gave it to her, and she continued to look at me. Eventually, she said "Are you gay?" To which I replied, "Err..r.. No. Why do you ask?" She said "No reason, it's just that you don't see many nice guys around here." After a couple of minutes of questioning (age, job, etc.), she said "Do you want to go and have sex?" The best sentence I could form in reply was "Uh.. I can't right now, I have to get back to work." She tried to persuade me, and told me she was really horny. As I started to walk away, she said "Do you want to see my tits?" Unsure of how to respond to the query, I said.. "Heh.. Sure, why not." So, she took them out. Outside the movie theatre, just off the Nepean Highway. She stood there for 10 or so seconds, did her dress up, and walked away giggling.

Well, that's it. I hope it's been an enlightening experience for you. I choose to hand the torch over to Gianluca, Ekstasis, Rubydot, this Bastard because of his refusal, and Slesh again, because I want to know more.

2005-10-05T19:24:00.000+10:00

I've heard the word relationship so many times this week, it almost feels as though I'm reading Woman's Day. What's the deal? Is it the sweet smell of Spring in the air? Peter and Jordan's wedding? Tom and Katie's baby?

Everywhere I turn people are either in a relationship, looking for one, insisting somebody else should find one, or lamenting on how much better their life would be with one. Could it be that I'm miserable because of a complex myriad of conflicting beliefs, insecurities and doubts about my existence? No, no... A girlfriend, that's what I need!

I've always been a firm believer that you can't exist happily in a relationship until you can be happy on your own, but the zeitgeist these days seems to propose that if you find a boyfriend or a girlfriend, everything else will follow. I'm not suggesting that having a partner isn't an enriching experience, but it certainly isn't the answer to all your problems. Perhaps the Hugh Grant variety of cinema is seeping a little too deeply into the social consciousness, but our purpose in life isn't to achieve 'taken' status, and the soundtrack isn't Ronan Keating.

The only thing more irritating than this mentality is the people who impose it on others; as if it's some kind of indictment on your existence if you've been single for a while. Even if you're completely happy by yourself, society has a way of convincing you otherwise. After a few months of "What you need is a girlfriend! Why don't you have one?", you start to think "Hey yeah! Why don't I have a girlfriend? What's wrong with me? Should I be trying harder? Is there an odour that I'm not aware of?" The possibility that you might actually be content with being single just isn't an option. The only exception to this is if you're living the single life, and hitting Twister each weekend. That's fine. Especially if you're a guy.

The problem is, love is everywhere. . And not in that Wet Wet Wet kind of way. 95% of films deal with love either in full or in part, and the entire pop music industry is supported by the concept. Essentially, from the day we are born and see our parents together, we are programmed to believe that finding a partner is our raison d'etre. As a result of this, people pursue relationships for entirely the wrong reasons; circumstance, sexual attraction, convenience, image, even taste in music. Some people just like the idea of being with someone, regardless of who that person might be.

A certain friend of mine, let's call her Dr. X, has never been single for longer than a month. I suspect most people know someone like this, who seems to be perpetually frightened by the prospect of being on their own. If they're not with someone, they're pursuing someone, or contemplating whom to pursue. The break ups are periodic, painful, and the result is always the same. This pattern of behaviour has been going on for as long as I've known her, which is of no surprise to me at all. When you devote all your energy to other people, it's impossible to grow as a person. After being dictated by the same mentality for such a long time, it becomes a prophecy unto itself, and is no longer a conscious decision.

From my experience, you never find a relationship of any substance when you're actively looking for it. Of the two or three times I've gone out with the intention to 'pick up', and succeeded, I have:

- Gone from infatuation to extreme prejudice within the period of two weeks.
- Realized that you can't sustain a relationship on dancing to R'n B music.
- Resolved never to talk to girls with the name Crystal again. Ever.

I think if you're 'on the hunt' for a partner, you're inevitably going to be let down. You'll either perceive qualities in them that don't exist, or be continually disappointed because of your expectations. It's when you achieve happiness and stability by yourself that someone tends to come along, usually before you even realize it's happened.

By this point in time you're probably shaking your monitor violently, yelling "For fuck's sake Millwood! Are you actually going to make a point here?" You've got some nerve, buddy. But the answer is no, no I'm not. I am, however tired of people being bludgeoned into situations they don't want to be in, and feeling guilty about things they shouldn't have to, purely because society instils beliefs in us that are completely bogus. And we lap it up. It's no wonder the divorce rate in Western civilization is around 40%.

Why are you still single?

2005-09-20T13:03:00.000+10:00

I found this at my work today. I have no idea how it found its way into the store, but I guess it's a little late for preventative measures. For those of you who are furrowing your brows, trying to work out why the face seems so familiar.. Perhaps this will help.

That's right. Just when you thought the days of the Funky Junky were numbered, somehow he finds a way to jive back into your life.

As the only artist completely oblivious to the concept of a shirt, Peter Andre provided me with many joyous childhood memories. With a range as broad as walking down a beach to dancing around with a wig, he managed to captivate even my cynical, 12 year old mind. But then one day the music stopped. For 10 years he lay dormant, waiting...

Some of you may remember a bit of a brew-ha-ha erupting last year when young Peter impregnated a recent member of the UK Big Brother house, Jordan. Whether a carnal instinct to fulfil his role as a man, or a cunning piece of media manipulation, the Junky was thrust back into the limelight. Only this time, he was wearing clothes.

When given a second chance to revive a floundering career, most artists would lock themselves up in a distant wood-cabin, not emerging until they had the greatest album that they were capable of producing. Now, I'm not saying that Peter has taken a lazy approach or anything, but the big draw card of The Long Road Back is a song by the name of 'Mysterious Girl'. Sound familiar? Sure does. It was his mega hit from 1995. Has he remixed it for his new album, you ask? No. Has he given it a subtly raw, funky 2005 vibe? Hell no. Did he at least re-record the damn thing? Certainly not. So what the fuck did he do? Nothing.. Absolutely nothing. The big single off the new album is exactly the same as the big single off his old album. The final nail in this rather baffling coffin is that it actually worked.. The new/old single went to #1 in the UK.

The only thing more baffling in fact, is the second single off the album, Insania. "Surely that's a typo, Millwood!", I hear you think. Oh no. It's real. And you're right, Insania is most certainly not a real word. But before you get up on your high-horse, I should remind you that Shakespeare invented hundreds of words, many of which are now common stock in the English vernacular. The Urban Dictionary, for example has quite happily acknowledged Peter's contribution to the language. Perhaps if I put it into context:

Aging will reverse
Cloning will diverse
Insanity is slowly creeping into our minds
Where is yesterday?

Do do do do do
Do do do do do
Do do do do do
This is Insania

See? It makes perfect sense. But I don't want to ruin all the fun for you.. Put down that Eels album of yours and invest in some real music. At a meazly $30US + shipping on Amazon.com, it's quite a steal. Don't take my word for it though, see what his other fan had to say. I would offer you the copy at my work, but it seems to have been mysteriously purchased..

2005-09-08T20:22:00.000+10:00

I had the distinct pleasure of attending an old friend's 21st a couple of nights back. In addition to the traditional shaking of one's booty and copious amounts of Victoria Bitter, I had to endure several hours of "Hey! Oh my God! I haven't seen you in ages! Like, how've you been? What are you doing with yourself these days?" After the fifth or sixth encounter, I really felt like just making stuff up. "Well, I actually just found this treasure map.. I've already got a parrot, and I'm going to the doctor for the eye surgery tomorrow."

By far the most irritating aspect of these conversations is the pressure I feel to match the other person's level of excitement. It's not like I don't try though.. I get my eyebrows up really high and start flailing my limbs about like a girl at a Hanson concert circa 1997, only to find that after the initial embrace or hearty handshake, you have two people standing awkwardly, looking around going "So... Umm.m.. Have you seen.. Steve.. Lately?" It wouldn't bother me so much, but most of the time these are people you haven't seen in several years, and weren't even that close to in the first place.

There are the odd moments of interest, like when you discover the devout Christian from year 12 got married at nineteen and is currently pregnant.. Or perhaps the girl who had the reputation of being a tad, err, promiscuous now has a two year old son. Of course, we all know this because she actually brought the kid to the party. There's nothing greater than having a jive, drinking some beer, and trying to detach a young child from your leg.. I shouldn't be too harsh though, they did come all the way from Seaford.

My favourite part of the evening is always the end of the night, when the obligatory "We should catch up soon!" rears its drunken head. Phones come out, numbers are taken down, and nobody has any intention of following through. My greatest memory of such an encounter was at a party sometime last year.. Half way through exchanging numbers I realized I had no idea what the person's name was. This left me with two options:

A) Give the mystery person my phone and make up some story about how the buttons are really small and I only just got it and don't know what I'm doing and technology frightens me so could you just put it in yourself? Or,

B) Acknowledging that I'll probably never have the desire to actually call the person, and putting in a fake name.. Say, Sausages, for example.

You guessed it, B all the way.

In the wash up, it wasn't exactly the worst party EVER, but there are certain things at a 21st you can just live without. Not the Grease Megamix though.. Without that, it's just a gathering.

2005-09-06T15:48:00.000+10:00

Is it just me, or are Hollywood movies actually getting worse? Gone are the days when I could enjoy the comic simplicity of Adam Sandler hitting a golf ball several kilometres with a hockey stick.. Now he'd need a black, jive-talking sidekick who calls him "a damn foo" every half an hour. Oh wait.... It did have that. Well, how about the times when Rob Schneider could make a 24 carat comedy without the need for sexual innuendo? No, you're right... There was no such time. So what is it then? Because lately I've been feeling a tad nauseous sitting through trailers for the latest blockbusters.

At a point around the last school holidays, literally every film showing was either a remake of an old movie, or an adaptation of a comic book. The only exception to this was The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. Now, call me cynical, but if the only original idea for the Winter season is about a pair of pants which get moved around a bit, we're not doing too well.

These days it seems to be all about rehashing old success stories. I understand the logic behind the remake.. You can tap into the younger market, whilst pretty much guaranteeing any fans of the original film will come flocking back to see if Hugh Grant nailed the part. Fortunately there's quite a number of roles out there for detestable yet charming British gits, and he's got the market cornered. Nobody plays Hugh Grant better than Hugh Grant.

I guess it just disappoints me to look back upon Legally Blonde and Runaway Jury and say "Those were the days!" But it's true.. Even if you acknowledge that there's no such thing as a truly original idea in Hollywood, it has been particularly bad lately. My concern is that when all the comics have been done, and the '70's has been bled dry, where will we go from there? TV shows? "Everybody loves Raymond... Or do they? A comedy of disastrous proportions."

2005-08-29T21:58:00.000+10:00

I nearly landed myself in some very hot, sweet, chewy..... Urghh.... Legal water over the weekend.

Things started out rather pleasantly. I was going to see Martha Wainwright at the Northcote Social Club with my intelligent and attractive girlfriend Fiona*. We parked the car, had a cigarette, and headed into the venue. Unfortunately things began to go downhill from there.. The opening act was Josh Ritter, who performed some rather choice folksy numbers. The majority of the crowd sat on the floor for his act, except for a group of around four middle-aged lungers** who seemed completely oblivious to this and decided to stand.. Front-row, centre. When Josh finished, security asked the crowd to stand up, at which point the lunger collective finally cottoned on to what was happening. I imagine the exchange that followed went something like.. *grunt* "Everyone else was fuckin' sittin' down." "Fuck aye. Ya reckon we were in the way or some shit?" "Na.. Fuck that shit."

At this stage the UTK*** was still relatively low, and we were both having a good time. The real fun began when Ms. Wainwright stepped up onto the stage. No more than 10 minutes and 2 songs into the performance, some guy yells out "Hey Martha! Tell us a story about your father!" This is the man you want at your wedding.

For those who don't know, one of Martha's songs is called Bloody Motherfucking Asshole, which she wrote about her father. That comment pretty much set the tone for the rest of the evening, made only worse by a woman and her giggling cohorts up the back.. "You go girl!", "You rock Martha Wainwright!", "Have another drink girlfriend, you've earnt it!" It got to the point where I really started to feel sorry for her. But what can you do? 'Martha Wainwright savagely attacks overly supportive fan mid-concert.' Probably wouldn't go down too well..

I didn't get a good look at the culpret, but I can only imagine she looked something like this. I think what irritates me most about this person, and let's face it, every gig has at least one, is how self-interested their behaviour is. Whilst it appears that they're making an attempt to connect with the musician in their own idiotic way, it's actually got nothing to do with the performer at all.. This is a grand opportunity for them to show everybody how self-confident and witty they are. Fuck the musician! What's the deal with airplane peanuts? Anywho, the wash up is I could've quite easily murdered the woman and most likely have been met with a warm round of applause. Somehow, I resisted..

On a brighter note, Martha herself was sensational. If you've heard her album and think she has a powerful voice, it's nothing compared to her presence on stage. Granted she's no Duff, but really, who could be?

* who will most likely read this.
** People who are good for breathing.. That's about it.
*** Urge To Kill index.

By the way, I'd like to acknowledge Surlyboy as my inspiration for the footnotes. Send your abuse his way.

2005-08-25T16:34:00.000+10:00

So, it's your birthday.. The sun is shining, birds are having sex with the bees (as I understand it, anyway), and for one shimmering day the world seems to effectively revolve around you, and cater personally to your happiness and fulfillment. Then your alarm goes off, and you realize that instead of floating aimlessly down a river, straw between your teeth, in something akin to a Tom Sawyer escapade, you have to work.. All day. And not just any work.. Your duty is to explain to people that unfortunately we already have 23 copies of that particular Jimmy Barnes album, so at this stage probably don't need to purchase another. What's that? No, we keep Eminem under E. Before you have a chance to locate the source of the odour that's been searing your nostril hairs for the past 10 minutes, a shrill, pre-pubescent voice attempting to sound deep and masculine rings out from across the store.. "Yous don't got 50 Cent!"

You guessed it, it's Dandenong.* And although these comments wouldn't be out of place on a street corner in the same area, I am in fact in a record store.

Now, I'm used to the blank expressions I receive when attempting to use words with more than three syllables, and I've definitely become accustomed to the alcoholic freedom that the local constabulary seem to condone.. But for some reason, today it all just seems a tad inconsiderate. I'm not asking for verbal coherance or even a forced, toothless smile.. I'd settle for basic bodily hygene. I suppose I shouldn't complain too much though.. I did find a deflated balloon stuffed in amongst our rap CDs.

Unfortunately the day is about to draw to a close.. Which is a shame, because I had big plans for that balloon. With some gaffa tape, a texta and some kind of mexican hat I could've had my own personal birthday Wilson! Young Tom would've been proud..

* If the behaviour described in this post seems somewhat foreign to you, I suggest you acquaint yourself with the rules.