Letter to My Fifteen Year Old Self

Hi there. It's me, that is to say, you. I'm eleven years older now and probably a little bit wiser, and although I no longer think Darren Hayes is the most beautiful man to walk the Earth, I am still able to quote the entire fourth season of Blackadder by heart.

Anyway I'm not really writing for any reason other than to tell you this, and save yourself the heartache: By the age of twenty-six, you are not famous. In fact you probably never will be. You will not be discovered singing to yourself on a tram (oh, yeah. You live in Melbourne now. There are trams there and it rains a lot). You aren't going to go to NIDA, and even if you did it wouldn't guarantee you a one-way ticket to stardom (in fact you have a friend who goes there - a new friend, one you haven't met yet - and she has been unemployed since leaving). But the good news is this: you don't really care. By the time you are eighteen you don't really want to be an actor anymore. You have discovered boys (I know you already know about boys, but forgive me if I say you haven't yet worked out how GREAT they are) and would really rather be a historian. I know, what a turnaround.

I'm not sure why every fifteen-year-old thinks they're going to be famous, except that of course the only role models you guys are exposed to (apart from your mums, of course) are singers and actresses. I'm sorry to tell you that over the next ten years it gets worse and now the women young girls are supposed to look up to are all reality stars and "socialites." So really you should be enjoying it while it lasts because although, admittedly, Britney Spears and Spice Girls aren't exactly setting the most attainable goals, at least they have worked to be where they are and have some (debatable) talent. (You will be interested to learn that most of the people who are currently famous have since faded into obscurity, just like Mum said they would.)

On the subject of Mum, you might want to try being a bit nicer to her. This is the first time she's done this and she's learning too. By the time Siouxsie's turn rocks round she's fantastic. Also, it doesn't need to be such a drama. Give it a few years and you will actually choose to spend time with her, and miss her when you're away from her. I promise.

Now, back to boys. That boy you fancy? Gay. Actually, all of them are gay. You like them because they are articulate, intelligent and respectful towards you, and unfortunately pretty much all fifteen-year-old boys who tick those boxes are gay. The good news is that you'll still be friends, many years later. For your twenty-sixth birthday, that kid with the blonde tips in his hair will give you a photograph of the two of you, taken this year. You will go to pizza every Monday night and finally reside in the same city. Your friendship will last much longer than it would have if you'd actually gone out in Year Ten.

I could tell you to stand by your bestie, the one who's going through a rough time at the moment, that she's 100% worth it. I could tell you to treasure the days with your brother because he is the best friend you will ever have. I could tell you that one day you will meet a wonderful kind man and begin to build a great life with him. I could tell you to follow your heart. But you don't need to hear it. You will do all these things anyway, with or without my input. Luckily, you will grow up and move on and live and love many and at times you will stumble, but you will never know as much as you do now.

So, I will leave you, my poor freckled gangly never-been-kissed fifteen-year-old self, with the following two pieces of advice:

1. You are not ugly. In fact, your skin and hair and waistline are only going to get worse from here. I know it's hard, but try to enjoy them. And at the same time (slightly contradictory I know), try not to fret about them too much. The less time you spend looking in a mirror, the happier you will be.
2. Darren Hayes? Yup, you guessed it. Turns out Mum was right after all.

Movie Of The Week: Source Code

Director: Duncan Jones
Starring: Jack Gyllenhaal, Michelle Monaghan, Vera Farmiga

Duncan Jones is a genius. I know this because he has excellent parentage. For those who believe that creativity and skill are due to personal ability, not hereditary talent, I direct you to his debut feature, Moon. And Source Code cements his position as a master of cerebral science fiction.

Like Moon, it opens on a man awakening in a disorientated state. Like Moon, an authoritarian, disembodied voice welcomes him back. Like Moon, all is not what it seems. But that is where the comparisons end - where Moon was restrained, Source Code is uninhibited; where Moon demanded focus, Source Code is irreverent, where Moon had character actors, Source Code has star power - in short, Moon is the kind of movie you make to get art cred; Source Code is the kind of movie to rake in the big bucks.

Captain Colbert (Gyllenhaal) awakens on a commuter train. A woman (Monaghan) addresses him by an unfamiliar name and strikes up a flirtatious conversation. He is disorientated and the last thing he can remember is being on reconnaissance with his unit in Afghanistan. He moves uneasily through the train carriage. And then it blows up. Colbert awakens again in an army facility, where he is told of his mission: he must keep going back in time to prevent the crash from happening - and each time he has eight minutes. I think this movie works best if you don't have too many preconceived ideas about what to expect - suffice to say there is time travel (of a sort) and parallel universes involved. But the story is firmly anchored in the real - every pockmark on Gyllenhaal's skin, every flick of black stubble, is rendered in high definition - and every time the train explodes the crash feels skin-splittingly, spine-joltingly real. Like Moon, Jones is interested in the minutiae of people's extraordinary lives - a coffee spill, a phone call from the ex, an altercation with a ticket inspector, all feel so normal that every time the crash comes, it doesn't fail to shock.

The movie has had the way paved by Inception (the two films are similar with their maverick male protagonists and deliberately ambiguous, potentially feelgood ending) and panders to the mainstream audience more than Moon with its familiar characters (Jeffrey Wright's hopelessly overblown scientist is a walking cliche). However, it is a satisfying thriller with an intelligent premise and a watertight execution. One feels that Jones is biding his time before he can hit us with his own Inception - a clever thriller which bridges the divide between mainstream blockbuster and cult success.

More Information Please

Facebook Gimp of the Week goes to my flatmate's brother's wife: "So CHN tells me that it's normal for babies to have just regained their birth weight by now (2 weeks 3 days) and that normal weight gain per week is between 100-200 grams ... our little chunker has put on 682 grams since discharge, grown a centimeter longer to 53cm and gained another 1.5cms to his head circumference at 35.5cm! Gonna be big like his Daddy!!!

Gosh, there's so much in there, where to begin? Well, putting aside the poor grammar and the needless length of the thing, there are a few elements I'd like to unpack here. First: the word discharge. Not a great word. Not a word one needs to see in one's newsfeed first thing in the morning. Particularly not when it refers to the DISCHARGE of a HUMAN BEING from a VAGINA (unwanted images of the John Hurt moment come to mind). Also, you know, there's just a little bit too much information here. Lots of numbers. And I like numbers. But these ones are all a bit unnecessary. There is a more concise way of doing this. You could say, "My baby is growing exponentially! This makes him better than all the other babies out there! Nyah nyah nyah." This, I think, conveys the general crux of what's going on here.

Because really, what is the most offensive thing about this status update? Even worse than the poor grammar, the clinical information usually reserved for private conversations, the implication that Daddy is "big" (more unwanted information to digest with your cereal), is the suggestion that her baby is more advanced than other babies and therefore the BEST. Now obviously every parent thinks their child is more exceptional than others. But Facebook has unfortunately allowed us to share our narcissistic tendencies with the wider populace. Cue six sycophantic comments and 29 "likes".

Let's Dance To Joy Division

Went to the Wombats last night. Wombats must have seemed like a great name for a band "back in Liverpool" but unfortunately in Australia every second thing has a wombat attached to it (children's books, the military, even the Olympics) so here it's lost most of its zing. I am quite a fan of this band - I have both their albums (haha) but their live show was a little lacklustre. Not much in the way of audience interaction and there was an awkward silence between each song as they changed guitars/fluffed their hair/loosened the top button of their uber-skinny jeans to allow their heads to slightly deflate. Also the audience seemed to be entirely composed of twelve-year-olds in various states of vintage dress-ups. The girl behind me had on a psychedelic palzzo-panted jumpsuit which someone should really have talked her out of (what are your friends for??)

Also, some gimp had decided that the best place for a Wombats concert was the Palais, which is a lovely old theatre near the beach, perfect for an evening with the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra or a stand-up comedy gig, not so perfect for kids who want to dance. Fire safety regulations ensured there was no dancing in the aisles so everyone was standing in front of their chairs, awkwardly shoulder-to-shoulder, so that the exits were clear (should we need to make a quick escape, Inglourious Basterds-style.) This would be fine if all you wanted to do was bop but in my case I wanted to dance and unfortunately my particular dancing style looks like Iggy Pop and Ian Curtis had a baby. Seat-dancing is not conducive to my personal expression, man. So I ended up doing the pogo rather than risk taking out the eye of the person next to me.

By the way, it's still cold (I realised I ended my last post talking about the weather and this is a bad move, blogging-wise. Is there a good move, blogging-wise? All blogging is essentially self-indulgent so really I suppose you can talk about whatever you want.) I have decided it is probably going to be cold for the foreseeable future. This fills me with dread (hard to believe that technically I'm English, isn't it?) but on the upside, it is an excuse to go shopping...

California Dreaming...

You know how in He Died With A Felafel in His Hand Noah Taylor keeps trying to play California Dreaming on the guitar and keeps getting the chords wrong? I love that movie. I love Noah Taylor. He has a such a sad monkey-sad face.

Well anyway my house is a little bit like that at the moment as Strummer keeps playing the first chords of Ziggy Stardust (the chords he knows) and then trying to play the rest by ear. I could be annoyed but I have decided to be very Zen about it all. Plus so far there aren't any cane toads, moontanners, Nazis, gothic postmodern lesbians or Nick Cave at 3am so really there's nothing to complain about...

Other things that are happening at Kelvin Mansions include: we are getting fruit and vegetable deliveries every Friday from Aussie Farmers Direct. They give you a random box of fresh produce which we are hoping will lead to inspiring ideas from Trixie "self-proclaimed world's best cook although his flatmates rarely see evidence of it" Fraganza. Last week we got Brussels Sprouts which I fried with parmesan and breadcrumbs. Delicious. (Why do Brussels Sprouts have such a bad name when they are really so awesome? Like little tightly-wrapped mini cabbages.) This week we got a pineapple. My good friend and former flatmate Amanda says you should always have a pineapple in your fridge, just in case a vegan drops round.

Amanda likes to be prepared.

So far no vegans have appeared but I am thinking I will eat the pineapple tonight. It will probably be the last chance for tropical fruit as winter is really settling in now. This morning I could see my breath, and I hadn't even left the house yet.

Stolen ... But Pretty Cool

I stole this from someone else, but it's cool ...

Ten Reasons Gay Marriage is Un-American

1. Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.

2. Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.

3. Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

4. Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.

5. Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed; the sanctity of Britany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.

6. Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.

7. Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.

8. Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.

9. Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.

10. Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.