Big Swing; No Ding

As my monitor squirmed in anguish and detest at the exquisitely ornamented sentence being pumped onto the pixels, my brain shrivelled to the size of a button mushroom, ironically about the size of the genetalia of this sentence's misguided author. Until, after a few moments of deep thought, my brain inflated again and I realised this poseur could have expressed his intent in approximately forty words less than he chose to. So I started contemplating; why go to all that tedious effort in order to simply extend what was a bollock-filled idea in the first place? Because he's a poseur. And to that miserable end, he is insecure, lacks confidence and uses a thesaurus instead of his brain. In fact, I'm quite sombre to say, I'm convinced this pillock has used several different brands of thesauruses to look up obscure synonyms for even more obscure synonyms.


Mate, there's a fine line between articulated sophistication and sodding arrogant pretentiousness.

And there's nothing worse than a pretentious poseur. The alliteration of which ironically epitomizes the poseur's primary focus. That of superficial and manufactured eloquence.


Unless of course, one can substantiate that pretentiousness with an insanely valid reason. Such as being a pom, or worse, being a private school student, having a dreadfully intensive education. Or quite simply, you are talented at what you claim to be, and have evidentiary support of thus.


But the one particular thing which infuriates me most, is their predisposition toward hostility with their supposed inferiors. And to a poseur, this encompasses everyone. The adoption of futile and confusing arguments is commonplace, all for the sake of winning a menial argument. The conclusive thrust of which is a magnificent inflation of their obese egos, all ready for another encounter with the sad actuality of their inevitable inferiority. Intellectually, this sneering demographic falls massively short of their aim. Shorter than Tom Cruise, Danny DeVito, and in some cases Anthony Callea, who fits snugly into both this article and a cat travel cage. I'm sorry Anthony, but your greasy hair, pointy patent shoes and lycra style business shirts don't account for the sad fact that your career started at; "And the Australian idol is", and ended promptly at; "Callea." Didn't exactly answer your prayer.


And then there are those who develop a certain aptitude for perpetual arrogance, the pubescent poseurs. Just teething their way to unusual levels of stress, insecurity and the uncanny ability to relinquish their true identity in exchange for an upper class snobbishness one would associate with James May, or the Duchess of York for instance. The only problem here is that these developing poseurs don't realise they have no authority to be demeaning to everyone else. Or perhaps they do, and they choose to ignore it on account of their dwarfed conscience.

Put simply, poseurs pose. Grotesquely and frequently.
Embellishing everyday life with the kinds of pointless distractions and annoying interludes we could certainly do without.

The kind of frustrations which leave us content in the knowledge that you're not them.

Maestro

Excuse me; I've Lost my Childhood

I lethargically trundled into English class, feeling slightly less alive after realising I hadn't eaten for 14 hours, had just been mildly concussed by the enormous confusion which is Modern History and intellectually numbed by the notion of a four page monologue to be memorized in forty eight hours. To add a magnificently unripe cherry to the top of the cake, I was immediately lectured about the impending perils of the dreaded HSC course, that I am part of a generation which is our only hope for the future of the earth and to enjoy my freedom while I can.

I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood you, sir, you must have mistaken the word 'freedom' to mean 'uncontrollable business, demoralizing tediousness, social alienation and a severe case of scratching-my-ass-will-have-to-wait-until-I've-finished-my-life disease.' Jesus.

Yes I concede we are 'the future', but unless my brain's time scale has shifted, the future isn't happening right now is it? So would you kindly leave me be until such time as I actually need to save the planet.

I mean, when you were my age, your daily ass scratching ranged from 10-15. I'm lucky to get that in a lifetime. I am the subject of constant reminiscing emanating from my father, about his romaticized notions of childhood and the liberty thereof; "Oh okay, so you jumped about in snow for eight hours a day. Oh okay, and then you ate and went to bed. Great story Dad."
Oh okay, I don't really care.

If you allegedly had that much time on your hands, why are my hands time repellants? Well I'll tell you. It's because all that time you were sodding about in the snow, you should have been at school. Like I am. Saving the planet. Because it was you and the rest of your moderately wrinkly comrades who spilt the mess I am now cleaning up. (Or at least being told to). Thats why we now have to write essays on how Shakespeare could have been more environmentally sustainable in his writing logistics. Or on why some tosspots have depleted my dad's superannuation by wanting more than their already gargantuan salaries. And you know why these tosspots are named so? Because they believe it is their right to pass the now carcass of buck to the next generation of hopeful, shining, glimmering lights. They just toss the pot to their children, so their children can toss the pot to their...oh, no wait, armageddon. Oops.

It has come to the stage when not only am I responsible for the planet, but I am responsible for it now. But miss, what if I want to pursue a career? Well is it a career in environmental sciences? No? Then it's not a career. Thesedays, I can't get anywhere without first wasting my prime years at university. After which, I will work for ten years in a junior position, youthful brain cells slowly declining, then I will be an intermediate, by which time I will have two kids and thus no brain at all. Then, by the time I'm sixty two, I will hold the top job, by which time I will be just as intellectually challenged and cynical as the man I replaced. And more worryingly, I'll probably begrudge society for having passed the buck to me, take one look at it and throw it aimlessly at the next generation; the young and brilliant chaps they are. Pity we waste all that time teaching them calculus, which they need like the pope needs condoms.

I believe we will be the first generation to lookback on our childhood and romanticize the notion that we ever had any.

But on a positive note, over the next two sweaty years, I will have completely solved the insatiable need to have my ass scratched...

By then I'll have worked it clean off.

Maestro

Eight Million Double Chins and Counting

Nothing makes me feel more jubilant than obsessively watching a grossly obese man willingly guzzle down a quadruple Big Mac with extra cheese, and oh hell, throw a few more patties on there too. It fuels my ego to know that in ten years their family will be making a custom size coffin and mine won't; that I can still fit comfortably into a Toyota Corolla without spilling my intestine on to the passenger seat; that I can still reserve less than fourteen seats on an aeroplane for myself. And the bleak and miserable truth of the matter is; fat people don't even seem to care.

Yes I said it. Fat people. Shoot me down, take me to I-Am-Struggling-With-A-Weight-Problem Anonymous and watch people fall to their knees crying, clammer about helplessly and ultimately decide to bounce themselves back up to civilization, so I can grasp the reality of the situation. The reality is, after a visually painful hour of sobbing and self-pity, they all line up at Burger King immediately afterwards. I personally don't care for what you call it; weight affliction, BMI index expansion, uncontrollable eating rage, muffinaddictionitis, exponential stomach alteration.

Blatant untruths aside, you are still fat. And chances are, it's your fault.

Statistically speaking, of the 8 million chubbies in Oz, fat kids having a genetic predisposition towards obesity is about as likely as this article being objective in tone. For those of you out there with obscure thyroid related diseases which force you to look oddly like a bipedal hippopotamus, I really am sorry. I'm sorry that you can only score desperate chicks on matchmaker.com, using a display picture taken from the third result you got when you typed 'hunk' into google. But for the rest of you, drowning in your own pitiful cholesterol, buying four litre tubs of ice cream for breakfast, with vocab's ranging from "make it a large" to "do I look like I don't want fries with that?" and clumsily dodging the reality that you brought this upon yourself, take a walk down heartburn lane with me. You were probably quite a healthy child, a bit on the pale side and notably athletic. Then you got your first job at the local milkbar. You stopped playing rugby because you were busy. Then you quit partly because the boss kept making passes at you and partly because you were offered a job with a more attractive salary (and a more attractive boss). Slowly but surely the kilos started piling on and before you knew it, there it is. Staring tauntingly up at you; a timeless and ugly reminder that you hadn't bought a pair of joggers in 8 years; a fold. Inside which, is a half melted mars bar.
Which you grasp with your chubby fingers and shovel into your gaping and overly-hospitable mouth.

I do not have red hair because I chose to. I argued with genetics and lost. But I do have underdeveloped calf muscles because I chose to. And all too similarly, you are fat because you chose to be. You are not fatefully fat. Wrap your greasy brains around that fact and stop lobbying to have the government ban fast food advertising between certain hours and to certain demographics. Images of flame grilled whoppers does not account for your multi-tiered stomach; in the same way images of Ferrari Enzos don't pluck you up off your sprawling, post code sized rear and transport you to your nearest Ferrari dealer so you can fork out 140,000 on an Italian washing machine.

All I'm asking is that you exercise some of your diminutive grey matter. It's the only exercise you ever do, so make it worthwhile and admit you are not biologically addicted to KFC, you just like the taste of their fried chicken. There's nothing inherently wrong with that.

But it would be far more considerate if you were to write a cheque for your children's primary school fees, rather than having them withdraw the money...

From their inheritance account.

Maestro.

For Godsake, Love, Forsake Love

This morning, rather habitually, I was stirred from my glorious slumber by the inconvenient racket of the radio. More than that; a love song on the radio. Now it may simply be the context in which I am hearing the endless love songs each morning, but I am most duly frustrated at the myriad of content out there about nothing more than love.
For godsake, society has turned to slop.

I understand all too well that writing about your dearly loved, statistically significant other half may produce some lovely harmony. And provide eternal inspiration for making more songs thus. But could we perhaps write, sing and talk about something other than love?

I concede it's a very heartfelt subject and makes even the coldest of us feel warmer and fuzzier than a furby, but could it be that we are so deeply embroiled in the cliché notion, that we are incapable of talking about anything else with the same depth? Perhaps we should defer the use of our hearts to pumping blood to our brains for a change.

Take note Mr. Blunt. James 'I've-had-my-heart-steam-rolled-more-times-than-michael-jackson-had-his-nose-tweaked' Blunt; don't get me wrong here. I do love your music so. But at the same time I am oddly sure you are responsible for a multitude of depression cases. Your songs - as well crafted as they may be - serve one purpose. When one is happy, they pull one down; when one is sad, they pull one further down. A exciting new concept for you James - its called happiness. Give it a burl.

Another convenient example of this excessively sentimental love rubbish is all too recent. Valentine's day; the perfect opportunity for a man to forget his woman resulting in mortal offence and sometimes a hideous lawsuit. The day in itself means less than the Bible does to Buddhists. It is overly commercialized, drearily American and the catalyst for many 9 months work-leaves. Another increasingly common option is to spend one's day sulking in the depths of the grumpy-abyss, complaining that they have nobody to love, and will never find anybody to love (Queen, take note). Firstly, it's precisely this kind of self indulgence which placed you fatefully in the corner of a dark room crying in the first place. Secondly, if you are in such a pickle, you should do just what everyone else does in your position - a quick trip to liquorland and a few days later you wake up on a roof in Mexico with fat, singleted old men fighting to the death over the last burrito. And you thought your life was sad.

So, on the next occasion you find yourself lonely, unfulfilled, partnerless, gorging yourself on home-brand chocolate, slumped lifelessly on your couch and contemplating popping up to the pharmacy for a quick fix of anti depressants and a James Blunt CD, take a detour to WorldVision. Sponsor a small and starving African orphan, who would have died in the next twelve hours from dehydration and malnutrition and who could have fed his entire family for a week with the chocolate now settling in your Westernized stomach.

Your problems aren't so bad.

Maestro.

Blog Virginity

How delightfully ironic it is that I should lose my blog virginity on none other than Valentine's Day. A rather damp one at that.
So now down to business. I wish to spare you and myself painful and unnecessary introductory notes such as name, date of birth, place of origin, gender (or lack of distinction thereof). This blog will be a public diary of my thoughts about the world, as a teenager. It is with trepidation which I begin my blogging experience but I intend this to be not a public outlet through which I may stream my experiences, eight year-old girl style, but rather a columnist style....column.
It is to document my aimless ponderings and I decisively purpose to update this as an artistic vent. I wish to write music, plays, books and the like when I get older; this is my crawling-before-walking era.
A rather foolish notion, considering how I will most likely look back on this as a middle-aged retail worker, with a poodle perched on my lap, still living with my parents (god forbid, or perhaps satan willing), and painfully regard my juvenile ambitions with resent and hopelessness.
Maybe I'd best stop here; I shall probably do more harm than good. (If only George Bush had uttered those words earlier.)
I am fully prepared for an audience of nil-one. The one being a technologically illiterate baby boomer who has unknowingly clicked his way to boredom.
The inevitable torpidity of my demographic (myself included) would point to the future of this blog being similar to, say, the monarchy; completely forgotten about, but the security blanket of its existence leaves one oddly content.

Do not take the nature of this particular article to foreshadow future ones. This is but a textual aperatif; the calm before the storm; the front cover of a thriller; the wrapping concealing the chocolate within.

I have a sneaking suspicion this blog will not last long. That it may have the seeds of its own demise planted in this very article. It may transpire to be like socialism; an excitingly splendid idea in theory, but once one has had it once, one never wishes to have it again...
But one must at least attempt commitment, right?

And so it begins.

Maestro.