Grey Matter

dear potential future husband (no, not you ryan gosling. you'll have to be content to just be my secret lover. not that i plan on being an adulterer. but does one ever plan on it? 'i was drunk, and i slipped - his ding-dong fell into my hoo-ha'...),

ever since i met you, all i can do is think about you.

it's crazy, i know.

you'd think a woman like me (of my age) would have other, more important things on my mind (like whether fixed term home loans are more consequential than learning how to tie a noose, for example)

anyway. so, seeing as how we do spend all this time together, (we're friends right? we can speak frankly can't we?) i was wondering, what on earth would one have to do, if, say, they were mildly interested, and wanted to make a move?

you see, a close friend of a friend recently began living with a male friend of hers (we shall call him root rat - or RR for short). she gradually began to have more than just a friendly feeling about him, but he was ensconced in a (yawn...) relationship.

however, after a sudden and horrendous break up, where she consoled him gently, and nursed his heart back to health, she sat awaiting the perfect opportunity to declare her undying infatuation for him.

that was when stupid bitch showed up. (or, StupidB for short)

StupidB was a dear friend of our beloved heroine, who naively introduced StupidB and RR, as friends so oft do. but, it wasn't until on a recent trip to sydney (heroine is from melbourne), she received a fateful call upon her blackberry storm...

i happened to be sitting with her at this exact moment.

StupidB: "hi heroine! guess where i am?

H(eroine): "wow, hi stupid bitch. where? where on earth could you be?"

StupidB: "well you won't believe it, but RR and i have taken up, and disappeared for the weekend to the countryside"

H(eroine): --

StupidB: "hello. heroine. are you there? (background - sound of RR's voice: 'SB bring that tasty piece of pie back over here')

H(eroine): --

StupidB: "if you can hear me, tap the phone with your tooth once"

H(eroine): "i'm here"

StupidB: "yeah, amazing. we're having the best time. you know XX's parent's country house? it has a jacuzzi and a duck pond. with ducks! and the cute double bed that you practically have to lie on top of each other to sleep in!"

H(eroine): sound of strange strangling sound in back of throat

Whilst i realise there's nothing funny about this story, it didn't happen to me.

so the remaining three friends that were also at the table when heroine received this hideous phone call, after hearing the retold version of story by a now stone-faced, mental case (heroine), doubled over in hysterics. for about 25 minutes.

the last we heard was that they've since taken to romping back at his house. aka heroine's house. and so she now gets to lie awake in bed each night listening to them actually to doing what she so longed to.

ahh. this cruel life. there is no justice.

i mean. she's not alone. there are a million and one incredible women out there, horny as hell, and dying for some good old fashioned fun (and i don't mean speed scrabble).

people. take note. just because a lady's over 30, well, they're not all hoping to jedi mind-trick academic, young, extremely good looking dudes into consensual sperm donation you know.

we heard a rumour that your thirties was where it's at. i'm here to tell you people.

IT'S A LIE.

dirty thirties. humph. the only thing dirty so far, about my thirties, is the looks i'm getting from my married friends when i tell them how lucky they are to have forced a man to promise to have sex with them til death do they part...

(and the sticky shit on the bottom of my shoes and jeans from going to goodgod every weekend hoping to score a party pash. jokes people. jokes.)

and so, potential future husband.

to save myself the same fate, and for the sake of my zillions of confused, tenacious sexy girlfriends out there, i implore you to write back to me (anonymously is okay) and just tell me:

what's a girl gotta do?

Lifting The Vaile

Rene Vaile. Man. Myth. Terror. Most incredible human on earth?

Here is a person that is unrivaled in terms of personality. His talent is beyond his own comprehension, and his friend's adore him - ne'er a bad word could be heard.

Showing in Auckland at Plaything Gallery, Rene is holding his first solo exhibition of photographs. And i'm jumping on a plane to be there.

Because that's the kind of guy he is. One you want to hold hands with in support. Snuggle on the couch with when suffering a hideous hangover. Go to bill&tony's and share cordial. Get excited over big jet planes.

Rene. You're my favourite person ever. Good luck, and save a photo for me. I'm-a-coming. Cheque book at the ready!

Opening Night - Thursday 29th October 2009

Show runs until Saturday 14th November 2009

21 Dacre St, Newton

Auckland, Land Of The Long White Cloud

What's Hot Meow.

In the same tune as the last tirade / diatribe (thank you. i love those words), i was so inspired by this blog, that i felt compelled to feature it on mine.

Forward thinking. Finger on the pulse. Ahead of the game. Cliche what you will.

This blogger has all the makings to be the next pint sized celebrity blogging cover star. Tavi, look out. There's a new cat in town....

I Just Wasn't Made For These Times

Everyone likes the angrier me.

The Idiots has been hit over a zillion times (i know, crazy right?).

And I almost didn't press "publish". Because. Though I do speak my mind all the time, it just happened that that day, i hated myself enough to want to join the masses in their group hatred of my blog loving.

And fuck me. Now all of a sudden having a blog is uncool? Someone could've told me, and save me the humiliation of introducing myself as "Evie Bear, yes cool name. Yes cool blog/s (note the plural...)"

What's with everyone. Why so fickle? And unpredictable?

I mean. I get frustrated with blogs all the time. They're all the flippin same. Woo. Boat shoes by Raf Simons. Aah, amazing. Someone loves Rick Owens' SS10 collection. Whaddaya know.

As it goes, I fucking hate Rick Owens. He's ugly, and his clothes look like oily rags. And photo's of outfits people wish they owned... what is that? ( though i would REALLY love this miu miu dress, which would look great with these shoes, and this enviable nose).

(squeaky voice)"Hi. I'm a twenty something fashionista and this song is on my ipod shuffle. On repeat. Don't you just wish you had her hair?"

I say, NO. I don't actually. All it does is remind me of when the first guy I ever had a crush on finally touched my boobies, but wouldn't touch the nipple.

Jeez.

And recommendations of movies about boys that meet girls but they don't fall in love, because it's predictable and then they do, but not really, and on facebook it'd be classified as 'it's complicated'.

It's ALL effing complicated. That's why we're all sneaky, spiteful little bastards, parading around pretending to like everyone.

I don't care if you detest my blogs. Or me for that matter. I just want to get some real actual loving.

And if having a cool name, and a belatedly cool blog (thanks dazed digital / truth-beauty-cock/ so much to tell you / a brush with fate, and any other bigger, better blog that accidently mentions mine instead of lowlife.blogspot.com - a blog about 'my thoughts on this and that', which, ironically, has absolutely nothing on it. how cool is that?) helps me to attain that goal. Well. Then. So be it.

All i can say is, sucked in for you rsvp losers who didn't think of it first.

P.S. koalaman82 - call me.

Guest Blogger: Catherine McPhee

I just love Catherine McPhee. Smart, sassy, and ahead of the game. Her website / online zine, Canvas Magazine, is checked with love daily for all things clever.

I invited her here for a special guest rant...

You want to know my dream job? Being in a band. I like the idea of collective unity. Donʼt want to be the bass guitarist. Donʼt care much for drums, although I do appreciate oneʼs talent for playing the instrument. I want to be up there at the front, taking centre stage, belting out the tunes, thank you very much.

The problem I have with this pipe dream is an obvious, and aural, lack of musical talent. I struggled with the recorder at primary school, for god sakes. I donʼt think my voice can find a note, let alone hold one.

Despite this, I have given a lot of thought into this job. Iʼve got a killer name for my so called band.

You think Iʼm going to tell you?

Iʼm the eternal optimist. If this fantasy comes to fruition Iʼve got to be ready. So in the meantime I dream of being this hybrid rockʼn'roll persona of some of my favourite singers and bands.

Iʼd be warbling dulcet tones to the audience like Emil Svanängen.

My lyrics would be simple but poignant and have the emotional intensity of the words of Daniel Rossen, singer from The Department of Eagles.

I could only dream of writing like Bradford Cox.

And Iʼd have this preppy, quasi-Yoko, nostalgic thing going on like Peggy Wang.

Note to self: Looking bookish and cute helps. Grow some bangs.

Do you think you would come to see my band?

http://www.loneydear.com/

http://www.departmentofeagles.com/

http://deerhuntertheband.blogspot.com/

http://www.thepainsofbeingpureatheart.com

Furvert

Do you know what i like? Sweet little kids dressed in cute all-in-one animal outfits.

Do you know what else i like, ME dressed in an all-in-one animal outfit.

What?

Didn't anyone else find the dog man in Dark Angel raunchy?

Thank you Spike Jonze.

The Idiots

So. I've decided i'm a pretentious, self righteous idiot.

I re-read my own blog to find that it's filled with the monotone rumblings of a seemingly disgruntled, born again, almost middle aged, fashion wannabe, and it makes my mouth fill with a little bit of vomit.

I especially hate the parts that give advice on how to live your life just like mine. Or the smarmy tinkerings about stupid, not-worth-the-effort boys i fall in lust with. Gag. I should just visit a sex shop or sleep with my exes like other normal people.

This miniscule moment of clarity gives me the strength to say sorry for all the sugar, and here's a nice dose of reality.

Fashion is what it is. Expensive pieces of cloth that cover our hairy privates.

Men actually do suck. And on occasions, that trait comes in good use.

Flowers die.

Raw food is boring. It makes the pieces of cloth fit more nicely. And my 31 year old cheeks look less lack-lustre than if i were scoffing krispy kreme's every day. But sheesh Evie. Have a fucking sandwich.

Aaaand - out.

Vertigo

Sometimes, life goes slow. It's easy, and predictable, and well, safe.

And then, out of nowhere, like the biggest punch in the face you've ever had (and yes, i've had one, so i know), everything gets turned on its head.

Maybe the sweet job you had, becomes hard and scary. The workload is overwhelming, and quite frankly, boring. And you start to wonder what on earth brought you to this point.

Or perhaps your cushy little relationship takes a swing to the left and the dent you two are making on your ikea couch becomes an ugly reminder of all the things you AREN'T doing.

It might just even be, that all the things you thought you'd have done by now, are taking their sweet time to materialise, and yes, all of a sudden it's fucking October 2009 and you're planning New Years and / or RAFW 2010 - (sound of head smacking against concrete wall, repeatedly) and the people you thought you could depend on to make grand plans happen are letting you down. . .

It sounds like you need a break. Or a change. Or a reality check. Perhaps you need all of the above.

My dad always said that because you're in charge of you, you're the only one that has the power to change everything.

If you're not happy in your job, and see no change in sight - quit! If your other half is all of a sudden, not as inspiring and supportive as you once thought - leave them. If you need a break, stop just wishing for it - fly the hell outta dodge. Even if just for the weekend.

A lovely friend tells me the key to life is to keep it 'simple and authentic'.

In all honesty, whilst i agree, i also think it's important to be spontaneous and a little outrageous with your decisions now and then.

Don't forget, it might just be this one time. I'm no guru, but i am quite sure that when you go, you go (unless you too want to be cryogenically frozen and re-woken in 2100).

So my goodness. Make the most of it.

Embrace change.

Go for broke.

Only the strong will actually survive, so go ahead. Challenge yourself.

And on that...

Did anyone else think when they woke up to a red world last wednesday, that the rest of humanity had perished, and you were the only survivor?...Or not...

Slow Down, You Move Too Fast

My dear friend and acclaimed artist, Kirra Jamison opened her latest exhibition, Slow Down, You Move too Fast last week in Melbourne's Sophie Gannon Gallery.

Ethereal, honest, moody. Kirra's work is generally presented on large scale canvases or paper, and has enough of ambiguity that it literally appeals to almost anybody. Young, creative, mature, sensible...

I've written about Kirra before and so i won't go into details about her many accolades, and the extent of her various collections, but you should know, that Kirra is a masterful creative genius who still maintains a humble sense of what she wants.

Her work does occasionally remind me of something i might've seen before, but then i realise it's just that i relate to it.

A long and successful career as a working artist has been made a reality, through her sheer determination to do what she loves, and that alone.

It's a rare treat to know such an accomplished soul, and with each new body of work, it becomes more and more apparent that what you're witnessing is a virtuoso in the making.

Gary In The Sky

Gary Bigeni is currently in Gay Paris. So is Jade Sarita Arnott. And Gail Sorronda (and Atlas) already live there.

Hmm. Someone please bring me back a mini eiffel tower key ring...? Pleease?

Anyway. If you all are as upset about missing this trip as i am, here is something that will make it better.

Feast your eyes on this lovely sight / read.

xx

This week it was Sydney designer and sugar junkie Gary Bigeni’s turn to sleep on our floor. The top of Gary’s Paris to do list was to eat his weight in chocolate croissants and immerse himself in capitalism at Disneyland. Here's a quick interview...

Gary you and Gail first met seven years ago when Gail did an assignment on your label. Tell us about that first encounter.

Well I got a call from a mysterious girl who had a blocked nose voice “This is Gail here from the Queensland University of Technology. I got your number off Thea from Blonde Venus and I saw your collection in the store and I really loved it and I want to ask if I can to an assignment on you because I have to do an assignment on an Australian designer and you really inspire me.” We’ve been good friends ever since.

Your personal style is in complete contrast to your design. Today you look like Big Bird wearing chef pants. (Gary interjects “No! They were full seventies bell bottom pants that I took in). Tell us about your personal style.

I like to wear whatever, whenever. I’m never afraid and I’m not concerned what people think of me. I wear my wooded red love heart and creepers with homemade printed collared bed sheet tops clashed with coloured pants with different coloured board shorts over the top. I’ve been wearing my knee high coloured socks ever since a teacher told me to pull my socks up or I’m never going to get anywhere in life. I haven’t pulled them down since.

And what about your design aesthetic?

I like to design classic timeless pieces with a twisted element whether it’s the cut or the drape of the fabric with interesting pattern making. I’ve always had a passion for jersey, it’s a timeless fabric that you can wear all year round. I get a lot of energy from it.

I noticed most of your aw10 collection is named after people. Friends I assume. Can you tell us about this?

Well I name some of them after friends, pieces that I know that they would wear. The name gives the particular piece a character. I’ve always had one word names. Its easy for referral and its good for communication.

Gary you have Coca Cola and chocolate croissants for breakfast. Is your mum worried about your imminent diabetes?

My mum is my greatest sugar advocate. Whatever tastes good. You only live once. I love food

And finally how was your Disney experience? Highlights?

It was a big bang in the head. It was fun. I liked the turtle ride. I liked all the twirly rides. I liked the Indiana Jones one. And I liked the Disney dance at the end when we were leaving.

Oh My.

New Boy.

I'm desperate to see you. I know i only just did, but already, i want you back in front of me. All awkward eyes and hairy face.

I'm dying. I want to tell you how i feel. I want you to make grand gestures, and i in turn, will also make them.

I want to skip work and see a matinee.

Or climb out of bed late one night and meet you in a seedy joint for a sneaky nightcap.

I want to keep laughing until i cry.

I want you to ask me what's wrong, when something is. And i'll tell you.

Even if it's boring, you'll blink sympathetically. A look of understanding plastered on your (very nice) face.

Sometimes i do go quiet, and i think we'd be okay with being quiet together too.

From my past experiences, i'll tell you. This unrequited yearning only lasts so long. So don't be shy. Never fear.

Any troubles will come out in the wash.

P.S. Old Boy. I love where we're at. Who'd have thought we'd make such fine and beautiful friends. Aren't i lucky...

How Much There Is To know?

Dear New Boy,

Who are you?

Where on earth did you come from? Somewhere far away...

Did you come to me in my dreams?

Did the psychic tell me i was going to meet you? Did you know i once saw a psychic? If not, pretend i didn't just say that.

Was it pure coincidence that we only just met, and had never ever met before. Or was it fate? Is there such a thing?

Will you lure me along, or will you stand up like a real man (that has grown a real beard) and tell me the truth.

Could you make me happy?

More happy than you already do in our silly banter?

The banter that actually makes my face turn red, and forms beads of sweat on my brow for fear that i'll say something dumb (er, always do) or boring.

Or are you still wondering about with your eyes open wide, taking nothing particular in.

Will you love the same songs i love?

Will you please show me some new songs. (make me a mixtape)

I know you're not afraid of me. That much i'm sure of.

You seem like a smart man. You seem genuine. And you are seemingly able-minded. But, are you?

Do you have an idea of what you want? Do you know how to get it? Will you admit it if you don't?

Can I help? Can i be someone who is there when you learn what matters.

Oh god. Not that I'm quite there yet, but New Boy, i'm sure it's not far away.

Sigh. I could quite easily lose my worried mind over you.

For, New Boy, there is a beautiful spark inside you, and i'm afraid, that if i blink, i might miss it altogether. Is that how it works?

Do i have to say what I want, or do i hope that you'll tell me.

Don't let this fizzle out, New Boy. Stand next to me, and make your (our) teeny new spark burn brightly.

That way, we can shine together.

We Died Of Awe

Not usually content to re-post magazine tears, i was too mortified by awe (thanks bree, for the word inspiration) to not.

Kinga Rajzak shot by Viviane Sassen for Pop Fall/Winter 2009. Bask in it's glory.

Green Thumb - The Story Of A Murderer

All around me is the stench of death.

Wilting. Yellowed. Foul-smelling. Insect-ridden. Death.

I don't mean to do it. I try all methods of restraint. I truly have remorse. I do.

But they just haven't got a hope in hell. I'm a killer. It's the sad truth.

Plants hate me.

Boy have i tried to grow things. "These little guys will survive anywhere" the man in the nursery says gruffly.

They don't.

Succulents. Void of any succulence.

Orchids. Just plain awkward.

Herbs. Don't even get me started.

Even Cacti wither in my presence.

What chance do i have to keep a baby alive if i can't even nurture an Air Plant? They're supposed to survive on nothing but air.

THEY DIED!

(sound of wailing and fists banging on the table).

I'll tell you what the ultimate irony is? I'm obsessed with plants and flowers.

It's like an illness.

I want a house covered in creepers. I'd like an internal foliage wall right in my bedroom. I'd have a garden, overgrown and wretched. There'd be natives and introduced species. Non discriminatory, i am.

And deciduous. My favourite. Bare in Winter. In bloom for summer. Heaven.

Oh. But the reality is. I never will. For all inanimate living things seem to curl up and die with my evil touch.

It must be a sign of evil inside. I can fool everyone around me. But not the trees. No. There'll be no photosynthesizing when i'm around.

No bush. No stem. No bunch will be tricked. And so death ensues.

Fatalities. A new one every day. Ahhh. Beware, beware i tell you. It's a curse. A wretched curse. And i'm sure it's only a matter of time before other elements catch on. . .