chivalry is back.

Everybody likes a bad boy.

Wind it back to your sandpit days; chances are the tot who wouldn’t share his colouring pencils was the one you pined for. High school brought with it the days of the unobtainable crush. You decided that the boy that had all his fingers in the pies was the one for you. It didn’t matter how many times he pulled out your heart, stomped on it and walked away (in that heartbreaking bad boy stride) you still wanted him. Why, as intelligent female members of the human race, are we so attracted to the unsuitable? Maybe it’s the thrill of the chase; maybe it’s the adrenaline rush that comes with not knowing whether there will be a happily ever after? Whatever it is won’t change the fact that women find the rebellious and the obnoxious so damn appealing. But girls between you and me- bad boys are fast becoming overrated.  Does a no-show or cheater compare with landing a helicopter in his sweetheart’s backyard- ala Prince Will style? Negative. Albeit, not every red-blooded man can afford to do this, a bunch of flowers would also be suitable.

Chivalry is back. Long live the nice guy. 

mcnaughty.

The newest girl crush. She's fun and fearless. She is Erin Mcnaught.

Five years down the track after being crowned Miss Universe Australia, Mcnaught is back and better than ever with her new collaboration with shoe label Zu. The collection titled Naughty for Zu features everything from a killer spike to a Bondi beach inspired wedge and emaluates everything a summer shoe collection should be.

Slip on two of Mcnaught's bad boys and you can almost feel the summer sun beating down on your skin. 

                                             

let down.

Don't cha just hate it when the people you love let you down. Whether it's cancelled plans, nasty words or the feeling that they just don't give a shit, it sucks. No matter how many times you try to brush the disappointment to the back of your mind, it sticks and you can't escape the fact that you are disappointed.

And that they just don't care.

I miss the times when people actually kept their promises, when people were honest and didn't feel the need to voice their opinions behind other's backs.
Bring back those times I say.

parklife 2011.

Counting down the days until PARKLIFE 2011. If it lives up to last year's expectations, it will certainly deliver. With The Naked and Famous (they happen to be my all time favourite) and Adrian Lux among the talented line up I am sure it will. Making a sneaky and short appearance in the vid below has made me even more excited, if that is even possible. Bring on October already!

frother.

Late last year I had an incredible opportunity to interview and write a piece about photographer and Bondi lifeguard Brad Malyon for a college project. As an avid (and slightly obsessive) fan of the television show Bondi Rescue I can not describe how excited I was to talk to one of the brave waterman who graced my television screen for quite some time. It was my first experience as a budding young journo and I was so nervous I could barely work my recorder.

Malyon not only saves lives on the world famous strip of sand and ocean but takes incredible photographs. His website Frothers is a collaboration of not only Malyon's work but local photographers and even surfers. Even if you lack the coordination to remain vertical on a thin piece of fibreglass a top a rough sea (like myself), the Frothers website has alot to offer.

It's definetely worth having a look, trust me.

http://frothers.com.au/

One of Malyon's photographs.

the waterboy.

free hugs.

Spread a little love today. Help an old lady cross the road, recycle, say something nice to your mum, smile at a stranger. Whatever, it’s all about keeping the good karma coming.

long live the small stuffed sock puppet.

When I was about four foot shorter and many years younger my life consisted of a few simple obsessions. The most significant of those was (and might still remain to be) Lambchops. No, not the kind you eat but of the sock puppet variety. The small, somewhat unusual puppet that graced our television screens for many years. For my third birthday I was given my own replica of Lambchops. I’m sure my parents wouldn’t have thought the small stuffed puppet would still take pride of my place on my bed 17 years later. But lo and behold, the small stuffed puppet has not been removed from the throne that is my bed (albeit she is looking a little worse for wear).

Thus began my life-long aversion to eating lamb (ask any member of my family I still won’t touch the stuff purely because of that small sock puppet).  Lambchops was the perfect best friend, she listened to all my childhood secrets and when I was upset or stressed (being a four year old is probably more stressful than you remember), she became my security blanket. Which is probably the reason why the small stuffed puppet no longer looks like she did in her hey days. Faded white, almost graying, her red buttons are long gone, as are her hands (who knew sheep had hands?), eyelashes and half of an ear. But I wouldn’t have her any other way. Even though she appears unimpressive when compared to the flashy, electronic, talking, moving, doing-freaking-everything toys of today, the small stuffed puppet has been through as much as any human. She has travelled interstate, flown overseas, attended school, moved house, met new people. She has been permanent fixture throughout my childhood.

How many childhood tears have soaked into her wool and happy moments she was there for are uncountable. According to my year one journal she was “my best toy in the world but some of my other toys don’t like her”. Apparently even toys get jealous.

 Although, it is debatable if the sock puppet that sits on my bed is the exact same one I was given all those years ago. I liken it to my family’s own urban myth. I was around four years old and by that time we were inseparable. One fateful day, my mum and I returned from the local shopping to find Lambchops was not in the car. Or under the seat. Or in any of the shopping bags. Full-scale panic erupted, Lambchops was a family member by then and family members do not go missing. A four year old never leaves anyone behind, regardless of whether they are of the living and breathing variety or of the stuffed. Luckily, my dad returned to the shopping centre car park that night and found the said family member “sitting near a trolley tucked under a blanket.” Good as new. Even better than new, strangely. Well the jury’s still out on how much truth is involved in that story.

Regardless, I feel grateful that I was able to hang on to a small, somewhat ragged and seemly insignificant yet monumental piece of my childhood. Something familiar that still evokes memories from many years ago. I doubt the flashy, electronic, talking, moving, doing-freaking-everything toys of today will have that same privilege of becoming that priceless to a grown-up somebody one day.

 Long live the small stuffed sock puppet.

open book project.

I happened to come across a nifty little project set up by the Reach foundation (http://www.reach.org.au/) the other day.

The Open Book Project.

Aiming to show the teenagers of today that they are not alone, the project invites famous and not so famous faces (like you and me) to dig out and dust off those old diaries from days passed. There are entries from comedians Hamish & Andy, athletes such as Cathy Freeman, actress Sigrid Thorton and TV presenters like Jules Lund, Chrissie Swan and Jason Dundas. Not only are the celeb entries interesting (and good for a little sticky-beak if I'm being honest) the not so famous faces provide some honest and completely heartfelt reading. Whether it was a young girl telling about how she feels not fitting in or a teenage boy telling of the day he lost his mum and how much he misses her, the Open Book Project is a lifeline to youth out there who think that they are alone in their struggles.

After reading some truly inspiring entries, I felt compelled to dig deep into the vault that is my eleven year old diary. Written in sparkly blue gel pen and beginning each entry with Hey Journal I was intrigued at what I would find. And believe you me, my eleven year old self did deliver.

"So lately A***** (note- I haven't not written this persons name so as to keep them anonymous, this is how it really appeared in my diary) has really been pissing me off because she always says wait for me, you're wrong, she sharpened my NEW pencils right down. But she is still my best friend.
I walked home with Hayden today. He is nice and cute.
I was supposed to clean the library today but had kinder dancing. Bit worried because I put the book in the wrong spot. Should I feel guilty? I kinda do. But I usually get punished for other people's crimes."

After re-reading my eleven year old self's inner thoughts and feelings I had to sigh and try not to wish myself back to the simple times of worrying about whether I put a library book back in the right spot. A child's innocence is one of the purest things to come across on this planet, and I'm glad I can hold on to a few pages of mine in the form of my diary.

Take a look at theopenbookproject.com. It's a worthy cause for Australian youth and truly inspiring stuff. While you're at it, see if you can dig up your old diary to have a read and maybe upload onto the site. You never know who your entry may reach out to.

local envy.

It always happens on summer holidays. That intense longing; wishing for almost nothing else.

You wish you were a local.

You pull up in the back of the family car, headphones in ears and pillow against window. You press your nose to the window, your eager breath begins to fog up the glass. You wind down the window and it hits you. That salty breeze; stirring up memories of holidays passed. The cool azure of the Pacific in the distance is inviting, urging you to break free of the prison that the car has become for the past three hours and immerse yourself in its frigid goodness. You’re almost afraid it’s a mirage, blink and it will disappear. But it doesn’t.

The pilgrimage make their way down to the sand, eager to worship the sun and the sea. You find it easy; almost laughable it is that simple to separate the locals from the pretenders. You are a pretender, you should know. There are those carrying no possessions, maybe a towel and a surfboard. They are casual, confident, in no hurry to reach the beach. They are safe in the knowledge that the beach; their beach is not going anywhere. They won’t have to leave the sun and sand in ten days time and return to the leafy suburbs. They are the lucky ones.

They are the locals.

Then there are those who can be compared to desert camels, laden with goods and parcels bound for faraway places. They carry umbrellas, sunscreen bottles, picnic baskets, collapsible chairs and sun shades, boogie boards and buckets and spades. Tripping over their own feet, they’re stressed. Anxious to feel the hot sand underfoot, the cool waves lapping against their ankles. They have a schedule to stick to; their time here has an expiration date. Once their feet sink into the burning sand and they settle themselves on their brightly coloured towels, their bodies’ slump. Muscles loosen; worry lines and frowns disappear, holiday relaxation mode is a go. Fast-forward a few hours, the sun hangs low in the sky and the sand begins to cool signaling the pilgrim’s departure. Many red raw, skin not used to the sun, sandy and sorrowful. Time to leave the beach.

Then there’s you. You’ve been coming here your whole life; you may as well be a local you tell yourself. This place belongs to you as much as it does to any other. As you make your way down to the beach, you’re on autopilot. Your feet know the way, following the familiar path you’ve made your way down so many times before. You appear nonchalant, in no hurry. But inside excitement surges into your chest and consumes you like a tidal wave. You think of nothing else but reaching the white-hot of the beach.

The euphoria of finally reaching the beach is overwhelming.  The tiny grains of sand slip through your outstretched fingers like a sieve, you liken it to the disappearing days you have left here.

Local envy is well and truly planted inside of you, like a seed being pushed into deep soil. But for now who cares, you are content. Pretending to be a local for ten days is satisfying enough.

the iphone itch.

It’s spreading like a nasty rash. It’s more unstoppable than a mob of rabid Justin Bieber fans. No one knows where it’s come from but the invasion of the iPhone has well and truly arrived.

As the sole survivor of my group to not possess the magical gizmo, I felt compelled to vent.

It’s not the actual iPhone that makes me mad, it's iPhone owners. My fists ball up, my finger nails dig into my palms and my knuckles turn white when one casually whips out their shiny new toy, pointing out each and every feature, every new app, everything that my phone doesn’t have. Not only that, iPhone users have no respect for their iPhones, if I had a dollar for every iPhone screen I’ve witnessed that is severely cracked I’d have about 50 dollars (I know that’s not a lot of coin but for a part-time uni student, it sure goes a long way). A little piece inside of me dies each time I see an iPhone carelessly dropped resulting in a feathery crack, I can’t help but think ‘If that was my iPhone I would smother it with tender love and care, polish the screen every day and only handle it with cotton gloves'.

Although even with a cracked screen, the iPhone is still better than my piece of shit. In comparison to the sleek, light weight yet resilient iPhone, my phone looks like it was designed by monkeys. Blind monkeys. Blind monkeys with no hands. Don’t get me wrong, the old Nokia does the job. It makes phone calls, sends messages, takes photos and browses the net. All I could ever need in a phone, right? Wrong. I need a phone that is more or less like a personal assistant. A phone that can:

1.        Stop making drunken phone calls to people I don’t want to/ shouldn’t talk to (Drunk Dialer- requires the user to hold the phone still while they dial a number, if you’re swaying drunkenly, then the phone will block you from tapping in a number.)

2.       Can scan barcodes and tell me where I can buy the said item cheaper (Barcode scanner).

3.        Can make me look fatter, older, like I have a black eye (Fatbooth, Age your face and Punch).

(Note- the iPhone can do all three of the above, not a word of a lie. See, this is why I need an iPhone!)

My phone stands out like a sore thumb. If phones were children, the iPhone would be the popular kid- not only possessing beauty but brains too. My phone would be the kid picked last in team sports, the kid nobody wanted to be friends with.

I guess it’s just a case of learning to appreciate what you have. My phone’s reliable. It’s like a cockroach- it could outlast a nuclear attack. No matter how many times I drop it, it just won’t break. **

And do you know what the sad thing is? After all that, I still wish I had an iPhone. What can I say? iPhone fever is contagious and easily spread. All it takes is one user to present the nifty new app they just downloaded for the cheap price of $3.99 that brushes their teeth for them, cooks them dinner or walks the dog for the iPhone itch to begin. And believe me, once the itch sets in, it spreads like wildfire.

** Note: Ironically, two whole days after I wrote this piece, the good, old reliable, never die Nokia well and truly carked it. Hello, shiny new iPhone!

You always want what you can't have.

What is it that makes something (or someone) unattainable so god damn appealing. You always want what you can’t have. Well, I do. You might try to deny it on the surface but we all know deep down it is one of the most accurate truth-facts in the history of the universe. Rewind it back to your nappy and sandpit days. You may have been the victim or you may have been the offender. Typical childhood scenario: the toy only becomes appealing when someone else is playing with it. Cue noisy tears and obnoxious screams of I WANT. Fast forward a few years to lunch at primary school. Your best friend has the sausage roll and the strawberry milk and you’ve got the shitty sandwich and apple. You promise yourself you will save your pocket money for next lunchtime. Fast forward a few years more and it’s still happening. You want her hair, her clothes, her boyfriend. Need I go on? Once something (or as aforementioned someone) seems impossible to obtain the desire scale rockets sky high. Call it the thrill of the chase, being greedy, call it whatever. It doesn’t matter what you call it, it won’t change the fact we always want what we can’t have. Does the blame lie within ourselves? Are we victims of our own form of reverse psychology (I cannot possibly have this; therefore every cell inside my being must want it)? Who knows.

 Although, what is even worse than that all consuming feeling of desire is when you do obtain that object of longing and you don’t want it anymore. It’s almost as if you flick a switch inside your head that repels you from what you once truly and whole-heartedly desired.

You could put it down to that longing to reach the impossible or obtain the unobtainable. Once it’s reached (or obtained) the novelty is quick to wear off. It mustn’t be as good as you once imagined, you argue with yourself, if it was that easy to get.

Human nature is a funny thing.

clay marzo.

A twenty something, amazingly talented surfer. Not worth mentioning Clay was diagonised with Aspergers Syndrome but Clay’s surfing speaks for itself. Clay Marzo-  Just add water: it’s definitely worth checking out.

In their youth.

Do you ever wonder if some how, some way in some alternate universe you would be friends with your parentals, if BIG IF they were the same age as you are now? Would you be in seperate cliques, would you be enemies? Or would you be as close as they get? Kindred spirits or what not? 

 Although they don’t often divulge the crazy shit (stuff that was alright for them to do but not us. Classic examples- driving without a license, underage drinking, pelting train commuters with oranges- and these all form the excellent example my wonderful dad sets for me) they got up to in their youth, do you ever get the feeling your parents aren’t letting on as much as they should?

Everybody's doing it.

Don’t cha just hate it when you wanna jump on the bandwagon, up your level of cred and start a blog, something witty, something clever, but cannot do so at the risk of coming across as a self-centered, self-obsessed, self-involved asshole?

It’s cruel really. Your head is brimming to burst with brilliant ideas, just ripe to be plucked from that fleshy cranium of yours and let loose in the big, bad world of cyberspace. But alas, these brilliant, witty, sure to inspire, evoke and entertain gems must remain under lock and key, for fear of your friends, family, colleagues, anyone really reading it and thinking, ‘What a complete and utter douche.’ Or worse yet, ‘What a complete and utter boring douche who just wasted five minutes of my time by reading that bullshit she is trying to pass off as intelligence.’

So you do it anyway. ‘What the hell’, you think, ‘everyone else is doing it. Why can’t I be part of this insanely hip circle of bloggers?’ So you start a blog. You spend hours perfecting the layout, choosing a picture of yourself that makes you look thinner, smarter and more attractive than God really made you. Your first post is ready to go, typed and spellchecked. You go to click Submit first post. Your hand pauses over the mouse, the little white arrow still in cyber space. You go against your better judgement and click Submit. No turning back now, your stomach lurches and you re-read what you just posted and decide it is utter bullshit no one will bother reading and so now you will look like a douche.

You become obsessive. Checking your blog every few hours, in the hope you have your first follower. (You don’t have any). So you check again, allowing the time difference for those across the other side of the world to discover your work of genius and decide it is the best blog they have ever read. (You still don’t).

Days later, and with a total of three followers (one of whom is your mum, and the other yourself on a made up account) you decide that blogs are not for you.

Twitter anyone?

Biting the bullet.

Don’t cha just hate it when you wanna jump on the bandwagon, up your level of cred and start a blog, something witty, something clever, but cannot do so at the risk of coming across as a self-centered, self-obsessed, self-involved asshole? Here's to biting the bullet and doing so anyway.

I like writing. Whether it's for everyone's eyes or never sees the light of day, I like it. Which is why I started this blog. To write. I'm hoping it won't run out of steam and maybe people other than myself (or my dear mumma) will read it.

I hope to one day end up working between the pages of one of my favourite magazines, with the likes of the great Jackie Frank or Elizabeth Renkhart. Until then, I'm just your average, run-of-the-mill nineteen year old, I dream too big but I don't really mind.