A Wild Young Under-Whimsy

Musical despatches. Oh how I used to denigrate MySpazz, but I have found myself getting into it. This was originally because I wanted to reach out to the yoof of today for my very important community service project, but it has largely become an exercise in procrastination and a source of free music. This computer is so puny that listening to music on the internet is more efficient than downloading it, and I am usually very unadventurous in my musical choices anyway. I have also got into Pandora, which is terrifying to me. Right now there is a song playing on my "Boy Rock" station that has Morrissey's off-key singing but is actually called "Higherness" by Aveo. And now on my "Retro Electrodisco" station it's a song I haven't heard in frickin' ages: "Dreaming" by Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark.

But anyway, here is some of the stuff I've been obsessed with lately. Lately I have been getting nostalgic for music I listened to in the period 1998-2000. Bis, Fatboy Slim, Propellerheads, Arkarna... I have been using MySpace to see what those artists are up to now, and I have discovered that the three members of Bis now have an awesome band called Data Panik that sounds like a cross between Devo and the B-52's.

Since Supermercado Adam reviewed their video, I have also been super into this snotty British pop-punk band called the Young Knives, particularly their new single, "She's Attracted To". I like it so much, especially as the opening line is: "Who are these people? They are too stupid to be your real parents."

I have also been obsessed with the soundtrack to the movie The Edukators, which I listened to repeatedly. Plus this 80s compilation CD, from which I was particularly obsessed with "Stay" by Oingo Boingo, "Right On Track" by the Breakfast Club and "Waiting For A Star To Fall" by Boy Meets Girl, which you might recall was recently turned into a horrid sped-up dance version, the fate that has befallen so many 80s and early 90s classics.

Also, last night I saw Dave Chapelle's Block Party, which is a hilarious and powerful musical doco directed by Michel Gondry, and I couldn't get over how amazing Jill Scott is. I mean, I knew before, but it makes me want to get back into her music. "I am the lady Jill Scott, and this is my pimple, Herbert," she tells the camera. Her smile lights up the screen. Her voice is electrifying. I love it.

Does anyone have any suggestions for music I ought to be getting into? I hear that Smelly Retardo is putting out a great Timbaland-produced album, but I haven't heard anything from it yet.

Over the last couple of weeks, I have been wanting to get back into the Incredible Melk stuff, but with a live funk band. Guitar, keys, bass, drums, at least two horns and hopefully a DJ or other electro dude. I am envisaging a kind of hot rock/electro/R&B sound, if that makes any sense. Of course, I would squander all this musical awesomeness on sophomoric songs about genitalia and bodily functions.

Dolly Parton Legs. Presenting my newest stupid song, to the tune of "Bette Davis Eyes". It is inspired by Dolly Parton's appearance at this year's Oscars. Please forgive my shonky, shonky rhyming, especially "two of 'em" which you must imagine slurred, as if a stroke victim is singing this, in order for the rhyme to work..


Her gams are thin and blue
Speckled like robin's eggs
They're like fluorescent tubes
She's got Dolly Parton legs
She's like a Thunderbird
On her unsteady pegs
You can't say a word
She's got Dolly Parton legs

And she'll charm you
She'll alarm you
Cos her legs are are thick as your arms
You can see through 'em
Cos there's room to drive
A truck between the two of 'em
When you touch her, she'll break like eggs
She's got Dolly Parton legs

Sorry. I can't be arsed writing the rest. There are only so many words that rhyme with 'legs', you know. Although when I was Google Image Searching, I came across the following image that I found faintly hilarious:

Mark my words: sheer black tights are back! I am seeing them everywhere on smart young things, and for once I'm not getting flashbacks to Contemporary Vocal Ensemble in high school, when we displayed our superiority to the other a capella choirs by wearing a decidedly groovy North Fitzroy-esque uniform of short black dresses, neck scarves and sheer black tights. In those days I thought Dewberry perfume from the Body Shop was the height of sophistication. Sometimes I cry for that teenage self, so convinced of her charisma, intelligence and potential. I wish I could go back in time and show her the shell of a person I have become.

But anyway, sheer black tights are back. Best part is, they are very cheaply available at the local supermarket. That's fashion.

Sorry about a bit of a silence; I couldn't think of much to say. I wanted to talk about the social ineptitude instilled by private schools, which was inspired by Ja'mie from We Can Be Heroes plus the snotty Sydney schoolboys in that late-night TV show Camp Dare, but then I couldn't work up enough enthusiasm to construct an argument good enough to preempt the inevitable smug comments about how fucked private schools and their alumni are.

Is it a truism that if you are self-aware enough to wonder if you are going crazy, you probably aren't going crazy? Today I had the sneaking feeling that my friends were doing things behind my back, coupled with simultaneous desires to run far, far away and to curl up in a ball in my room, and I know that these kind of feelings are early signs of approaching psychosis, but then a real psychotic wouldn't think like that, so I am probably just being an insufferable drama queen again.

Recently I have been feeling a fierce desire for concealment. Right now I am gripped by the desire to get about in a kabuki mask, because then I would feel much safer and more confident interacting with other people.


I found this picture via the magic of Google Image Search. And the thought of going about my daily life looking like this was so wonderfully absurd that I can't help but smile. But anyway.

In the Bakhtinian sense, masking is "a possibility of being something other than what one is," writes Efrat Tseelon in Masquerade and Identities (Routledge, 2001: 5). Masking establishes a sense of order while simultaneously disintegrating it; it belies that there is no 'true' or innate identity; and it challenges hegemonic containment of otherness. Tseelon draws distinctions between masking, disguise and masquerade: "The mask hints; disguise erases from view; masquerade overstates." (2)

In trying to devise strategies to conceal my thoughts, feelings, desires, am I fetishising them instead? Am I clinging to that which is hidden in the deluded belief that they offer access to my 'true' self? Will concealment grant me the sense of peace and order that I crave, or will it catapult me into chaos? I have no idea; I just remembered I made these notes last year and I happened to have the notebook on me.

So today in the shower I was thinking about some religious topics, in honour of it being Good Friday. Then for lunch I ate a plate of eggs benedict on Rathdowne Street, in flagrant disregard of both the no-meat-on-Good-Friday tradition and the no-eating-breakfast-foods-for-lunch tradition. Here are my sacrilegious musings.

First, how embarrassed would you be if you were Jesus on the cross and you got a hard-on? There'd be no hiding it - not in that loincloth. And you couldn't try to conceal it with your hands, or by crossing your legs, because they were nailed to the cross. And you would be up there for all to see, including your mum. HOW EMBARRASSMENT.

Second, do you think that those Hasidic Jewish guys have to wear regulation underwear, or are they wearing some totally outrageous novelty boxers under there? If so, what would the boxers say? "My name is Asher Lev"? Suggestions welcome.

Third, I wonder if Scientologists ever have crises of faith and go, "Alien beings? Silent births? E-meters? Man, it's just fucking science fiction!" Also, what kind of really low psychological ebb would you have to be at in order to accept Scientology as a legitimate source of spiritual guidance?

Number of Krispy Kremes eaten today: 4. Deliciousness: still high, but waning after four days. Shame felt: a lot. What? I'm not made of stone!! Fingers: sticky from sugar glaze. Typing one-handed-now. (It is much harder than you would think. However do those internerds manage it.)

Update: There is only one left in the box now. Would it be wrong of me to eat it, too? Why should it be lonely when it can join its fellows in my stomach?

Y'all fare evade now, y'hear? So I got this fare evasion fine in the mail yesterday. I am wondering if I can refuse to pay the fine until they give me back the ticket that they confiscated as 'evidence' of my 'offence'. It had seven two-hour tickets left on it. That's at least a couple of months' travel. Also, I wonder if I can contest it on the grounds that my middle name is "Lucette" and not, as they state, "Lulette".

But you know I am posting about this because I am secretly glad to have been unmasked as the KFC: the Kentucky Fare-evading Chick. That's right, y'all - your girl Lulette is 100% pure Appalachian; all jugs, banjos and moonshine. I am not quite sure where to go with this gag right now, but for sure y'all haven't heard the last of Lulette. Yee-haw!

The fishnet stockings were a dead giveaway. This just in from the Subeditorial Antics Appreciation Society (via Peter):


Kudos to the Age sub who got that one through. You can see it for yourself here.

Perhaps the stupidest song in the world. And I write as someone who serenades the cat along the lines of: "Oh Meepy, you came and you sat on my lappy, and it made me very happy". (This is really just scraping the surface; I also do a Dolly Parton-inspired number that goes: "Oh Meep, oh Meep, oh Meep, oh Meeeeeeeep! I'm beggin' of you please sit on my lap.")

But anyway. Today in the shower I decided to test out a theory of mine that Pantene is essentially the same product as the el cheapo Priceline shampoo that costs $3 for half a litre. So I compared the ingredients. Apart from things like sodium laureth sulfide and methylchloroisothiazolinone, they both contained cocamide. But while Pantene contained cocamide MEA, the Priceline shampoo contained cocamide DEA. This started me on a rousing chorus of a new inane ditty which I like to call, "Cocamide Mea, Cocamide Dea". It's in a similar vein to "Knowing Me, Knowing You".

But then I segued into perhaps the stupidest song in the world, "Coco Jamboo" by German group Mr President. If you want to know more about this 90s one-hit-wonder, this link puts it in better broken English than I possibly could. ("Whereas he is mostly RAPING in this track he shows that he can sing HI-ENERGY.") Indeed. I think "Coco Jamboo" might have untapped powers to torture inmates at Abu Ghraib or something.

The stupidity begins with the unnecessary O in "Jamboo", because it's not as if it rhymes with bamboo. But then a synthetic pan-pipe sets in and you realise you are truly in for a wild ride.

Aya ya ya Coco Jamboo ya ya yeah
Aya ya ya Coco Jamboo ya ya yeah

What is this chocolate-flavoured jamboo of which they speak? As it is a black guy singing, I am assuming it's about sweet action. This suspicion is not allayed by the chorus, which makes the action sound particularly active:

Put me up, put me down,
Put my feet back on the ground
Put me up, take my heart
And make me happy

The verses continue in this mystifying yet suggestive vein.

Here we go gettin' smooth to the groove
Showing lovely ladies how I sooth as I move
That's what they say but I can't prove
So turn it up again and watch me move to the groove
As we get close you whisper coco
I hold you in my arms and you say Jamboo
Scream and shout turn and stay columbo
Now I gotta go yo coco

That's the way I treat dem girls kinda smooth see
Cause there's one man and yo, that's me see
So let me show you round as your sip your tee gee
But no coco loco boom while I take a pee lee
When I hold my baby tighter she says I do it nicer
I like my chicken with rice and lemonade
And that's what you get when she shouts out Jamboo
Now I gotta go yo coco

Now I am almost thinking that shouting Jamboo is like shouting "Bingo!" or "Geronimo!" or "Help!" But can anyone tell me what "staying columbo" involves? I am envisaging a rumpled trenchcoat. And does "no coco loco boom while I take a pee lee" mean, "I cannot have sex and urinate at the same time"? And what kind of wild animalistic activity is implied by the phrase "I like my chicken with rice and lemonade"?

I know that soliciting comments here is like taking a pee lee into the wind, but I would be interested to know if there are worse songs than this about. Adam, if anyone knows, you will.

It's official. I didn't think I could heart Jason Mulgrew any more, but I do. Because the man loves boobies as much as I do. Also, because his story about the song "She Blinded Me With Science" made me laugh raucously and no explanation I could give to my annoyed coeditors, short of reading out the entire story, could summarise why it was so funny.

Did you know that one time I sent Jason an email suggesting that he post a compendium of the things to which he has likened his tiny penis? I said he could call it "Jason's Smallest Hits". He wrote back, "Hmm, nice idea..." but I am yet to see that post.

I am feeling rather dissatisfied today. Like, I can draw, but I can't draw particularly well, as demonstrated by this self-portrait I quickly did up on Photoshop. (My Illustrator is busted on this computer and I don't know why.) I really envy illustrators and designers for how easily they can make things look great. They make it look so easy. The other day, Jeremy happened to come across a draft of a document I'd drawn up for a job interview I had last Friday, and I was so ashamed at how ugly it looked that I didn't want a designer anywhere near it and I said, "Seriously, could you please put that down?" and Jeremy went, "You should be proud of your work," but I think he was talking about the words and not the embarrassing design.

Also, why is nobody commenting on things I think are wonderful and giggle at while walking down the street? I put some red-hot content up here and nobody seems to think it is as wonderful as me. I feel rather rejected and don't wish this blog to become a hub for people I know in real life to 'keep up' with my activities. Of course I have other outlets for my emo drivel so there is no need to put it up here, but really, a little bit of audience participation is not too much to ask, is it?

Goddammit, I am not really making much sense. I am working myself up to being really, ridiculously angry. I just wanted to grab her hair and just yank her, yo! (Oh my god, girl, I know! I know!) I am not very good at hiding my feelings from people. I wish I could be straight with everyone and set out precisely the situation I find myself in, but I have become so entangled in this web of not-telling I have been spinning for myself that not-telling seems like the best way to protect my feelings. Do you think not-telling is good or bad? I mean, wouldn't we be boring if we knew everything about each other? Or is not-telling just trying to fit too many things into a suitcase, and they'll fall out eventually, probably in the least appropriate and dignified situation? Perhaps my room is a manifestation of this - I need to clean it out, it's like a Mel-nest.

Oh well, time for beer now. I am already late to meet Saige.

Just like having a delicious meal. So I had a brilliant idea while I was in the shower this morning. It was that the Beastie Boys should found some museums of contemporary culture. They have got off to a good start because there is already a museum in Sydney called MCA. Now all they need is a museum of consumer culture called Ad-Rock and a museum of music culture called Mike D.

Teh interweb's next top model. Inspired by the success of Google Idol, I have decided to combine a reality TV concept with embarrassing crap people post on the internet. You see, there is a billboard on the corner of Lygon and Elgin Streets that makes me laugh every time I walk past it. It is for Levi's Tuff Cuffs and it features a bunch of male and female models in frankly the most hilarious poses since Zoolander. But when I tried to find an online image of this billboard so I could mock it, it wasn't to be found.

This is obviously bullshit, so I tried to assuage my deep hurt by Google Image searching "blue steel". You know what Blue Steel is, right? It's different from Le Tigre. That's more of a softer look.



And that's when I had the idea for Teh Interweb's Next Top Model. Here are our contenders.


Votes in the comments, please. If I can be bothered, I'll also do recaps of the boys' antics in the model house.