Why the sisterhood's a sham!

I've been much probed of late to reveal my thoughts about our new PM, Ms - that's right, MS, she might as well be Penny Wong - Julia Gillard, and how this how incident well invariably dictate the entire political outcome til the Armageddon (of which, Ms Gillard, is disinclined to believe in being a Satanic atheist type).

Honestly, I don't think that I am lending the correct response, judging by the vaguely crestfallen response I see when I shrug and offer up some wanky-non descript sort of response, such as "hmmm, time will tell"

Besides her being a ranga with a vocal range akin to a pubescent boy's, this is all pretty whack to be happening right before the election. And time now plays a major role in determining our political fate..

Because I once - not that long ago - was convinced the modern western world was becoming a free-lovin age of aquarius bunch a socialists without any of the rage of the Socialist Alliance part members.

Luckily I have been curbed of such delirium with threats of internet filters and massive oil spills, but politics turns time at the speed of light really. 

Was it really that long ago that we were under the Howard bloody government with no end in sight when a slightly dorky, effluent, Mandarin speaker took Labor, and in turn, the country, to better places?

And, no, I don't think his tears warranted jeers and calls of our shafted PM being a soft-cock...and in any case, don't you think he shall be suffering from this very symbolic castration performed by his ball-busting wife glad to have taken over the driver seat again...

And Jules is far too controversial to secure the vote...The theory of the reality TV contestant Voting Pattern may be applied:

 Women shall not induct fellow women into any state of superiority: Women shalt not win Big Brother unless intellectually delayed, which will attract an altruistic and condescending group of bill-paying followers..

The same happens in Australian politics...Women don't cut it, unless they're thick as shit... 

You're either "deliberately barren" such as the case with our Jules, or use your children as political trump card and eventual excuse to leave the Democrats - Natasha SD...

Or the malicious favourite being "That whore, Cheryl Kernot.." versus "That stud, Gareth Evans..."

As of yet the stakes are high - and the bets are on - to try and hazard a guess over the imminent date with the polling booths..I reckon the longer it's left, the crazier the shiznay will get...

Just ask Regina from Big Brother

Why I just may out po-mo* you all!

I have been in a crisis of augmented existence: My two worlds seemingly transposed, so that during the last 6 weeks where I have been without a home, so too, have I been without a home(page)...This posting obviously indicates a happy ending in both the virtual and real worlds...


What this retracted online presence may have done for the marginal perusals i may have once accumulated, i must accept...i may now resort to desperate BP like measures in order to direct through some traffic via google...


Though, arguably, I was in such a state of shoe gazing, wistful crisis, the one thing I may credit myself for is willful restraint from using any such social networking site to articulate my internal dilemmas.. 

I read recently with great amusement over the furore caused - from some protest, or fundraiser...or street fight - when people were accused of being grossly offensive by making the statement of adorning themselves in the attire of a homeless person.


You know, that whole bum thing scarecrow like stuffing of mismatched shirts; some - gasp! - worker pants (but for the purpose of the character, I am sure that these brave pioneers acting in the name of the un-resident-ed would have ripped a couple of token holes around the knees for added measure)..


So then, I guess if this is the seasonal look of the homeless, I may just have been considered, haute couture...


What? An audible gasp (wtf? i thought i was on myspace!?) This precious lil postgrad wants to clutch at the poverty chic of the uni days (mi goreng noodles resulted in an ulcer)  by identifying as homeless...


..."Well, try harder, you upper middle-class scum, you!!" You are thinking as you prepare to pound out an anonymous comment to that effect.


Obviously someone had a more enriching study plan for their HSC, not having to add "Life Management" to their timetables...Because, in fact, one may be "homeless" according to its scale that measures the varying degrees, with #1 = sleeping on the street and #10 = an extensive hotel stay****


And whilst I (thankfully, blessedly) was not on category 1 terms, but when it gets to the stage where you are taken for a drunk dickhead from a land that boasts a better economy and you are staying in a skanky arse Backpackers in Bondi, you are probably not having dinner parties...


Actually, the one fun part was pretending to be a tourist from an assortment of different countries, and for the first time in my life (except when I was in France) I was accepted as a frog! Quel dommage!


Not to mention the slightly dubious insinuation by an ex-cop from oppressed Fiji, now acting as a caretaker for some serviced apartments in Drummoyne that I could come and stay "anytime..we could, you know, work something out.."


That'd be right, the girl known around the UTS Radio Journalism class as "Rent for Sex Girl" (long story, even for me, my dignity remains intact though), could well have been propositioned for a similar type of deal...


Though imagine the awkwardness of settling the bill had we, indeed, got our wires crossed...


*Unnecessary to define to all those who are "true", but this means postmodernism; as in pomo-mofo**


**Unnecessary to define to anyone


***This is a completely inaccurate representation of the scale

Why do I have a fat radio voice?

Apart from Steve "Sex on Walkley legs" Cannane (whom I had the great fortune of sharing a cafe with this arvo, he likes his flat white on skim...not as wangy as soy anyways..) pictured at left,I have always been greatly disheartened, upon seeing radio presenters in the flesh for the first time.


They're always uglier..or fatter than you may have envisioned from their on-air persona..there's a lot to be said for that age old label applied to that "face for radio"...


Apparently this is generous of my mental artist to paint such a favourable image, and the opposite may be applied in my own case, in fact, as I discovered last night at the pub...


...But not - mind you - in a good or particularly flattering way that suggests that i'm too good-looking for it...


The week prior I made a concerted effort to go over and say g'day to a couple a dudes whom I knew by sight from 2ser, as they're always recording in Studio 2 after I am done with drive every tues..and finally apply names to faces, etc...


So, John, who smiled politely and promptly left, although forgetting what my actual name is, in fact revealed himself to be a regular listener of my show. 


The thing he couldn't get around was how I actually appeared in the flesh following a distinct mental build-up of my physique..


Intrigued, to know what he was envisioning instead of what was on display, I ask John, "Preytell, what did you think I looked like, by the by?" His response(!):

"Well, i thought, you were a lot....errrr....bigger..."

 I have never published any pictures of myself on anything really, I am already filled with hardcore dread whenever that fateful advisory email: "You've been tagged in an album, called..." on facebook.


This is a once-only exception - I promise - of rear-end idea of how I look, as pictured at right looking intently at some of the psychedelic memorabilia to feature at the Melbourne museum special seasonal exhibition all about drugs..it was a great way to make up for the fact they had taken down the Neighbours exhibit that delighted me and my sis so much the last time we visited the fairer city..


Now I am left to the peril of your scathing judgement over the proportions of my derriere..then get me a pizzzaaaaa....grrr...now i wonder, what a fat voice may be...


Please advise..

Why migspace was taking back seat..and now it's ridin shotgun

In the vain hope of communicating with whomever originally stopped by for s scathing once-over, I return to the post of self-obsessed web-publishing abuser


in a bizarre moment where I am not - refreshingly - obsessing over ways in which a group of year 6 girls may debate over the virtues of whaling, or hounding some self-proclaimed media expert or the like for a 4th Estate story (this, in fact is not due to any great virtuous act of my own, but more the fact that there is absolutely shit-all to report on in the "maligned democracy" that is our 4th Estate..


Oh, wait, except of course that awesome coincidence of Herald Sun revelation of lil drug moll jr. Dakota Williams goin to some poxy private school - and off our hard-earned tax dollar, fancy! -  but, dang, turns out some lil bastardo already has sorted out this role of media in the death of underworld serial killer, Carl Williams...Case closed, I revert back to the medium partly responsible for killing the industry...


And goatie is a case in point, just how the bloody hell does this "footage" denote even the slightest inclination towards cinematographic merit, almost any youtube clip would boast greater credits...


I believe that it was Leunig that regaled the existence of this deadly assassin, in his book "Goatperson" he pens a poem that concludes..

Good morning, well connected, Goat!

Parental guidance only required in cases of hyper-imagination...


This is all of great concern as I have been in an extremely casual position of radio producer for all of a couple a months and even since then, the signs seem all to point against any potential for a hip and happenin shock jock wannabe as myself..apparently it's all a boy's club, so dang, I am in fact, in the hardcore throes of repressed opression..


But, hey, in fact, I am no longer spending lusty and longing nights in the company of the saucy Spaniard cleaner (whom, for lack of imagination, have dubbed, "Rosa") emerging via secret passageway slinking her way around 2ser, adorned in neon rubber gloves and a world-wearied frown...what with her and the graveyard blues man KK, it was becoming quite the intimate occasion..


What this in fact means is that my sanity levels are increasing with improved production measures of 4th Estate..but hey judge for yourself if you so desire, i enforced a twitter reportage ban awhile back now, so don't think that this is in anyway an inspired or new idea in media reportage..


So, now, I turn back to the old faithful, typing ground that doesn't break off with a dazed look of befuddlement as I continue on in digression...(today on the show was a corker, going from Melbourne Talk Radio to pharmaceutical conspiracy based product placement, although, on paper, it doens't seem like such a stretch..)


So, watch this (mig)space, more shall evolve, including the most amusing anecdotal part of my life, my role as debating coach for Year 5, 6 and 12 girls belonging to one of the most opulent and grandeur educational institutions (the term school doesn't quite cut it here..) that my skanky Newy past has never quite readied me for...


Receiving critical acclaim for excellence in the field of Friday-night pub banter: a startling insight into the pageant world of North Sydney debating competition...expect a wordpress blog, "Mass-Debating"...bedtime now, methinks...