gingers for justice

So it turns out my surname - Rouse - is the Old English equivalent of "ranga", derived from the French adjectives "roux" (masculine) and "rousse" (feminine), which translates to "red hair".

No, I can honestly say that i'm NOT a Ginger. I'm not disrespecting them, in fact i've never quite understood why people with red hair have been the butt of so many jokes.

However, after watching M.I.A's new music video for her single Born Free (which was so confronting that it was taken off Youtube this week), I can say that i'm quite grateful for my lack of carrot-top.

It seems recording artists are becoming more and more about shock value these days, and i'm all for this new wave of in-your-face music videos. But I dunno - even I think M.I.A. crossed the line a little bit. It was all a little bit unnecessary. On a lighter note, the music video reminded me of this hilarious Catherine Tate sketch...

the russkis are coming

Molotov cocktails raining from the sky!

"Drivers on the Monash Freeway were forced to dodge Molotov cocktails that were hurled from a footbridge onto the roadway in Melbourne's south-east late last night.
Police said four flaming bottles hit the freeway and caused a series of grass fires near the intersection with Springvale Road just after midnight.
About 40 minutes later another fire-bomb was thrown at a house in Glen Tower Drive, Glen Waverley."

(Megan Levy, The Age, 28/4/10)

A string of strange coincidences have left me feeling rather Soviet this week. Molotov cocktails aside, I've been reading Tolstoy's Anna Karenina to pass the time on the train, the weather has been positively Cold War lately and I happened to bump into an elusive aquaintance of Russian origin who I hadn't seen in a LONG time.

What does all this mean, you ask? Dunno. But I sure as Hell DO know that I want this hat! Just like the handbag ad above, it's the perfect blend of the Soviet Union and American pop culture and consumerism...

on my telescreen

I'm addicted to the TV series "Mad Men" at the moment (amongst my other addictions). It really makes me want to become an Advertising shark like the chain-smoking yet classy Don Draper... drinking scotch in his office and flirting with secretaries is all part of the job.

And yes I realise that the advertising industry these days would be much less glamourous. Knowing my luck i'd probably end up designing informericals for "snuggies". I suppose screaming at my TV every time I see an ad for Hungry Jack's doesn't exactly qualify me.

The show's set in 1960's Manhattan. Ah, back then women had class. Why do I always find retro-housewivesy women so attractive? Freud would have something to say about that, i'm sure.

ned kelly syndrome

"Guards oblivious as Williams dragged to his cell where he lay dying for 20 minutes"

"...Williams was attacked from behind... dragged about a metre to his cell and dumped inside. The accused killer then shut the door of the cell, leaving his victim fatally wounded."

Scanning the front page of this morning's Age while I sat waiting for my morning P.R. lecture to start (oh, surprise surprise, a story on the death of gangland figure Carl Williams!) a rogue murmur of sympathy infiltrated my usually steely thoughts.

I could just imagine myself plodding about the prison, morosely looking down at my lurid orange prison uniform, minding my own prisonly business when SPLUNCH! (this is what I imagine the lovechild of "SPLAT" and "CRUNCH" to be)... someone comes up behind me and thwacks me out of this life with a pole taken from an exercise bike. A pretty undignified way to go.

The power of words! Journos keep using "victim" to describe Williams in those last moments of his pitiful life, and I hate to say, it kinda works. "Victim", for me, invokes images of Bambi's mum and Jewish people in concentration camps, not lowly pathetic murderers who get what's comin'. But as I read this article, the simple word "victim" muddled up all my anti-Williams thoughts...

For about a second.

But I quickly realised how stupid all this was. Williams is no Ned Kelly, despite the grieving bogan family and the disgusting tributes popping up on MySpace and Facebook. He was a slug, and that's how he died - smooshed out of existence.

I just hope that if i ever end up in the clink, it'll be in this one...

my childhood fears come back to haunt me... in cinema studies class

I've always had this morbid fear of the 1971 horror classic - The Exorcist. It's a bit of an irrational fear though... seeing as i've never actually watched it.

I vividly remember having the entire film desribed to me, scene by horrible scene, by a primary school friend who was much more rock n' roll than I was (he also gave me the "birds and the bees" talk in year two, which my parents never even attempted. Thanks mum and dad, if it wasn't for little Murray i'd still to this day not know what my willy was for).

I especially recall this childhood friend describing, and theatrically acting out, the infamous "spider walk" scene, in which the possessed little fucker scuttles down the stairs in a demented and equally terrifying fashion. After hearing of this particular scene, I vowed to never EVER subject myself to this landmark of horror cinema (i'm a delicate flower).

But today, my cinema studies tutor decided to whip out a scene for us to analyse. And there it was - THE scene.

Let's just say my childhood bed-wetting phase may just revisit me tonight.

ode to christine

Oh look at her. The poor thing. How could you possibly be mean to her? She's just like a pudgy little badger. Plus, she has a gun.
Anyway, just to be safe, she should probably think about joining the Witness Protection Program. Just in case...

Future headline: "NIXON KILLED IN HOUSE FIRE. ARSON SUSPECTED"?
My twisted imagination.

friday night

It's a Friday night. I'm surrounded by skanked-up teenage girls, gay boys, girlfriends dragging boyfriends, gaggles of wrong-side-of-29 women, glammed-up extroverts of indiscriminate gender, Harajuku-esque Asians, punk-lesbians... and families with young children.

Yes, I'm at a Lady Gaga concert.

The cola-can bouffants, caution tape sashes and lightning-bolt eye makeup were a giveaway. But the people themselves - the people who'd forked out the money for the ticket and made their way to Rod Laver Arena in Melbourne defied any sort of label.

(Credit to xmascarol from flickr.com for this snap)

Gaga's show - pop concert meets "Wizard of Oz" on acid - was nothing short of amazing.

Her "Little Monsters" is what she calls her fans. It's not that they sprout tentacles or bare jagged rows of fangs - they're monstrous in their diversity.

Love her or hate her - someone who's able to bring together such a motley horde of people from every walk of life has something going for them. Let's just hope she uses this power for good (her "monster" hand salute looked oddly remiscient of a Nazi sieg heil at one point. Maybe that was just my twisted imagination).

la muerta

I've had Death on my mind lately. Don't fret, i'm not going to get myself an emo fringe or start shakin' prayer-beads like maracas. But this week the morbid topic has definitely moved from the deep, dark crevasse in the back of my head (also home to thoughts of my lack of financial security, my secret Quarter-Pounder yearnings and Mathematics) to the sunny frontage of my consciousness.

There's been a death in the family and yesterday was the funeral, a sombre affair but as funerals typically go these days - a "celebration of life" rather than wailing old Italian nonnas.

Amidst my tears, it got me thinking about my own death (which i'm sure will happen one of these days, unless all the blood-drinking works out). My own funeral - how would I want it to play out?

I'm not going to lie, i'd like it to be a big deal. Call me selfish, but I would much prefer a full-on Tim Burtonesque grim-fest.

Musically, i've made a few executive decisions already. A nice n' Gothed-up "Death March" on the organs as they bring my coffin down the aisle, which then breaks into Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl", with a full troop of Japanese marching girls whirling batons. To close, i'd like that Breakfast Club anthem, "Don't You Forget About Me" by Simple Minds. Ok, I was born in the 90's but i'd like to be sent off wearing acid-wash jeans to an 80's classic.

But then again, perhaps i'll have that no-nonsense attitude of my Pa when I reach his age. He didn't want a fuss. His service was simple, without spectacle and yet it evoked such emotion in us all. Good old Ken. His pure lack of bullshit will be something I'll truly miss.