28 bottles of wine on the wall..

Ah Melbourne, thou dost always bring a warmth to my heart even in the dead of winter...

I met with the lovely Mel Campbell this morning and chinwagged about the execrable articles in the new Sunday Life magazine, why white people love Mad Men and the none-too-tiny nugget of genius that was Germaine Greer's epitaph for MJ.

You may know Mel from A Wild Young Under Whimsy or just generally being an interesting Lady About Town. Anyhoo, we put away truckloads of coffee and I felt slightly anxious for the remainder of the day, which was primarily spent poking about overpriced antique markets and tacky, overpriced shitholes on Chapel St.

I was also beset by an unfamiliar sense of shock when I realised that the Footscray Coles would be packaging my goods for me in a *spits on fingers in manner of Catholics warding off evil eye* plastic bag. Truly, I had the same reaction I might have done had someone wandered into The Elephant Walk and lit up a cigarette. I mean....you just can't do that. Clearly the Great Plastic Bag Ban SA Edition can already be declared a successful social experiment if after only a few months people are already brainwashed into believing that the world prior to it existed in some kind of Carrollian dimension populated by talking eggs and this man:



Ah Depp. I thought that Willy Wonka might be a one off, a strange anomaly in an otherwise ordered and correct world - but no, it appears that you are capable of assuming multiple guises in which the likelihood of desiring boudoir intimacy with you would be virtually zero. Curses.

On Saturday night, I exceeded all prior levels of tacky white trashness when I attended my dear friend's birthday dinner and got blazing drunk on overpriced-but-shitty red wine. I then proceeded to drink two more of said bottles in the gutter outside with a motley crew of fellow trashbags who, tangentially to this experience, all claimed to be suffering from swine flu. Some other hijinks occurred which I think may have involved raucous discussions about slut shaming at The Union and possibly some ferocious haggling with a taxi driver. I woke up on a floor in Fitzroy the next morning with a cat curled next to my face and my liquid eyeliner still in place.

Yes, I'm nothing if not neat in my fooliganism. I may be a boozehound, but I like to think I'm a remarkably well preserved one.

This will come in handy, as I am one year older today - today (which is I suppose tomorrow, sort of, it being past midnight but today by the time you'll be able to read this) being my beeday, my 28th one. Which sounds a lot older than 27, and veering dangerously close to the dirty thirties. I wonder, will it still be acceptable for me to read Sweet Valley High books in the bath when I'm 30? Now that I'm old, will I have to give up watching ABC afternoon kids dramas? Is 28 really too ancient to consider party make out sessions one of the highlights of the week?

I jest, of course. One is NEVER too old to read Sweet Valley High books in the bath. That Jessica is such a scamp. A manipulative, sex crazed, wonderful bitch of a scamp.

tweet tweet...

Ahead of my rapidly approaching descent into the jobless market, I have made somewhat of an astounding decision. While it fundamentally goes against most everything I believe in and will almost certainly lead to total brain rupture and spasmodic arthritis of the hands and wrists, I cannot in all good conscience avoid this path.

I have *hem hem* joined Twitter.

As Mr Collins would say, let me outline my reasons for marriage.

Firstly, it will serve as a great time filler in between geeking out over DVD box sets (speaking of, I'm almost up to date with Lost - suggestions for next celluloid obsession below plz) and peddling my wares to printy type places about the country. Secondly, it occurs to me that it may be some kind of career minded thing to do, given that I can use it to peddle MYSELF to any kind of public that chooses to be interested. And thirdly, which perhaps I ought to have listed first, it is the very great wish of my honourable patroness the Lady Catherine de Burgh that I do so, and in return she has promised to build shelves in my closet.

To be fair, that second part works well in theory but we're all friends here so I can be honest. I am less likely to use it for anything of substantial merit than I am to post photos of poorly thought out fashion choices like this, and attempt to solicit people's thoughts on the inherent tackiness thereof:

I refer of course to the tattoos, though the dubious choice of a singlet in June would understandably warrant its own discourse.

In conclusion, if you do that whole Twitter thing or just like to follow raging egomaniacs like myself, you can find me on www.twitter.com/audreyapple.

It could be fun. I'm considering making my 'thing' to update about current events and anti-feminism but communicate only in haiku. Maybe. Here is an example of a 'retweet' (check me out with my lingo...) to rachelhills re the media's reaction to the NRL sex 'scandal'.

Clare, she was branded

A slutbag who lies.

And Johns? A man amongst men.

Genius. Who can say?

And so, if you like

You can follow me right here

And lo! See me tweet!

That is all.

an exercise in non sequitur thinking

Well, it's been a while but the time has come to revist an old friend. I say friend, but obviously what I mean is she of the horrendous-vile-harpy-contributing-to-the-destruction-of-the-world-as-we-know-it-through-the-use-of-mind-numbing-online-columns-and-poorly-researched-(if-at-all)-columns-on-gender,-dating-and-why-women-are-really-nothing-more-than-batshit-crazy-marriage-medusas-intent-on-trapping-men-by-filling-their-empty-depressed-wombs-up-with-collateral-babies!-and-then-giving-up-on-sex-because-now-the-ring-is-on-the-finger-they-don't-need-to-do-it-anymore-oh-and-also-men-are-heaps-nice-and-shit-and-women-just-won't-give-them-the-chance-because-they're-stuck-up-bitches-yay-pretend-feminism!

I am of course referring to Samantha Brett or, as I like to call her, That Fuckwit.

After all this time, I'm still uncertain as to what exactly qualifies Brett to speak with any kind of authority on relationships. Is it that she's been in some? Because I've been in some too, but you don't find me peddling misinformation and stereotypes online to a mostly moronic public. Which is a shame really, because I could teach people a thing or two about a thing or two - namely, that it is unwise to date a man who genuinely believes himself to be a Sith Lord and that men who take road trips when you've scheduled an abortion and then forget to call to see if you're okay are probably not what you'd call 'keepers'.

Luckily, you have me to read That Fuckwit's crap so you don't have to.

*hem hem*

This week, Brett asks the incredibly on-trend question of whether or not the anti-feminist movement is back in vogue. Only four hundred million similar articles or television segments have been produced on this in the last week, so we're fortunate that Brett has added her two cents to the vacuum of considered thought on this matter.

I had expected that she'd make mention of 60 Minutes' heinous report last week that suggested more and more young women are embracing 'traditional' roles of femininity - spurning the workplace to stay at home and look after Their Men, attending trite tupperware style retro kitchen wear parties and generally ignoring the fact that they've failed to borrow rampant alcoholism, sexual oppression and gut wrenching melancholy from the decade they've decided to idolise.

+

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(You get the sense that reporter Ellen Fanning is doing all this through gritted teeth here. As an older woman in a sexist industry on an especially sexist network, it must have felt like chewing glass to construct a report on a 'phenonemon' that is essentially bogus, overblown wishful thinking and reflective of nothing other than some people's desires to will it into existence. I'm sure the presence of Germaine Greer was the studio's only concession to her complaints.)

But if there's one thing we've learned about Samantha Brett it's that she's fond of posing initial questions and not only blatantly failing to answer them, but in fact failing to tie them in any way, shape or form to the actual content of her bilge columns.

She begins by recounting the fabrication tale of a dinner she shared with a male friend recently. While dining on 'sushi and sake' (oh Sam, you are like, soooooo Sydney and cosmopolitan! Get down with your bad self!), she asked him why, if it was so easy for women to find men to sleep with, they couldn't find anyone to commit to them.

Interesting question, Sam. Of course, my initial response would be that you shouldn't seek answers to it from someone who'll offer you the following:

"Oh that," he replied. "Well, that we'll only do when it becomes obvious that a girl we're pseudo-dating proves to be the perfect girlfriend. With so many options these days, why settle for anything less?"

He went on to explain that while he'd happily bonk his dutiful f--- buddy, the thought of committing to her (and ditching the other three women on his speed dial) was enough to make him cringe...

Apparently his bonk-buddy didn't possess enough sex appeal, didn't have a great sense of humour, didn't talk enough about interesting topics, wasn't ambitious enough, didn't flatter his ego enough and wasn't - what he deemed key to getting him to commit - feminine.

"She dresses too much like a man," he exclaimed.

Ah-huh!

See, your friend is a fuckwith. While I understand that you're That Fuckwit, you need to be aware that he's That Other Fuckwit - and his essential douchery when it comes to sleeping with women he has no respect and no discernable admiration for yet considers himself better than is not explanation enough for the disconnect between sex and the willingness to commit that it requires an 'Ah-huh!' on your part. I mean, are you actually that person who believes every lame thing an emotional fuckwad says is indisputable evidence for Why The World Is What It Is?

Here is a verbal painting of your brain.

"He says he won't commit because she's not feminine, meaning that she doesn't flatter his ego enough. Ergo, this must be true and she must be Letting The Side Down with her comfortable shoes and inability to pander to the emotional needs of childish men with a penis complex. Ergo, this must be true of all situations in which men are reluctant to commit to women.

I am now equipped to pen an ill-conceived and spurious treatise on something unrelated to this matter but pretending to be. As usual, I shall offer up no conclusion but leave it to my readers to try and spin some kind of cohesive thought structure out of this mess. Also, I shall cash my ridiculously large check which I continued to bank when other Age writers were on strike, because I have no morals or sense of unity."

She continues:

So was this the issue of contention when it came to the modern female single epidemic?

Brett then goes on to discuss the work of Helen B. Andelin, a Mormon mother of 8 and general thorn in the side of women with, you know, brains. Andelin founded the Fascinating Womanhood movement, which basically instructs women to defer to their husbands in everything, act girlishly and deny their own essential sexuality. Andelin wrote that:

"Sexuality in a woman does not arouse love in a man. Love is aroused by wholesome feminine qualities."

But Brett's hypothesis as always fails to deconstruct the rubbish she's actually talking about. She provides a whole bunch of quotes which, both on their own and in context of Adelin's book, are certifiable garbage - yet the only hint she gives at her disapproval of these ideas is labeling the book 'tedious' and at times hilariously outdated.

Eff, she can't even discern the theoretical difference between the random opinion of some twat she's drinking sake with and actual in depth studies on the views of men and women.

"Perhaps. But when I delved deeper into the topic, it appeared that it wasn't only their dress sense that was sending men away in droves. And it's not even something recent either."

See what she did there?! Firstly, she lied because she said she 'delved' when we know that at best she's conducted a pathetic straw poll of one. She then assumed that That Other Fuckwit's one example of cuntish behaviour was actually the result of some kind of vast action on behalf of women everywhere. WE are sending THEM away in droves with our expectation that love means never having to say you're sorry for wearing sneakers and enjoying financial independence! In droves!

Surely the appropriate response here would be, 'Get over it you self absorbed, arrogant douchebag. Admit that you don't want to commit because what you really want is a woman who'll submit to your assumed brilliance, let you be smarter than her, funnier than her, more powerful and more successful, and who will look good hanging from your arm in front of all the other smart, funny, powerful, successful men you fancy yourself to be in competition with. Fuck this shit, I'm off home to drink vodka and tell everybody I've ever met about what a wanker you are."

But instead of dismissing her friend's views on femininity and commitment as outdated claptrap AKIN to the kind of malarkey pedaled by Adelin, she assumes that his explanation is both correct and universal.

I mean, FUCK. It's offensive enough that she's even provided with paid writing work but you'd think the woman would be forced to actually follow the basic tenets of opinion writing. Namely, have one.

Personally, I like what commentor Ms Magoo has to say.

"I think that for anyone who wants to become a Mormon, give birth to eight children, marry a dentist and pretend they are living in the 1960s, this could be a useful resource."

I'd like to amend this slightly to apply to Brett's site as a whole and say that for anyone who wants to lose a few IQ points a week, learn how to give birth to nonsensical theories, commit themselves to following the inane babbles of an imbecile with too much air time and pretend they are living in Sex and the City, this is an essential resource.

After all, where else could they read such stellar material as this:

"Women don't give enough men a chance any more," a twentysomething male single friend told me over drinks last week. "That's why so many women are single. You should do a column on that: 'Why more women should give more men a go.'"

I was intrigued as he continued: "You see that woman talking to my friend over there?"

He gestured over to a short, balding bloke with pale skin and a leather jacket who was attempting to chat up a bored-looking busty brunette.

"Now, he may not be the best-looking guy in the club, but I happen to know that he is a really great, decent dude. But look at her - she's not even going to give him more than two minutes of her time before she walks away. That's modern women for you."

Obviously it came as no surprise that Brett didn't bother to question why the short, balding man thought he deserved a busty brunette when there are far more noticeable absences of short, portly women being given the time of day by chesty men.

But what could you expect from a woman who describes vomitous marketing tie in and hideously dated battle of the sexes film vehicle He's Just Not That Into You as "Zeitgeist-defining"?

Samantha, your brain called. It wants its bond back.

GFC. I knew him, Horatio...

For the first time in what seems like an age, I'd actually planned to do some site maintenance today. I was up practically at the crack of dawn, bunkered down at the kitchen table and sifting through some websites of varying interest.

Having finally fast forwarded to the future and hooked my house up to the World Wide Web, I took some time to appreciate the ease in which most other middle class people live. Good food, fast internet, warm houses. Life was pretty good. For me, at least.

I was even resisting the urge to submerge myself in season 4 of Lost. Last night, we learned that the island is mad wack when it comes to time, and that Hot Desmond narrowly escaped time travel related nutjob brain failure by anchoring himself to the lovely Penny. We also learned that Kate is not the bundle of awesomeness tha we previously assumed her to be, but rather a vicious harpy who toys with the emotions of that fine hunk of manhood, Sawyer. (sidebar: perhaps one of the funniest moments ever had Sawyer interrupted while reading Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. He found it 'predictable'.)

In amongst all this learning, we ALSO learned that Locke is going progressively mad as he becomes more obsessed with the island's secrets, and Juliet purses her lips too much. Oh, and that Hurley is just about the cutest thing to have ever been created for television, ever.

But any fan of Lost would know these things already, and would in fact be about a season and a half in front of me. SO DON'T SAY ANYTHING.

Anyhoo, I was ignoring Lost in favour of my shiny new internet connection and the myriad of different things there were to get mad about today. There was the Liberal staffer caught groping the breasts of his colleagues and superiors at Parliament's mid-winter ball. Is it facepalmishly amusing that he worked for the Opposition's Spokesperson for Women, Sophie Mirabella? No, it just makes it sadder. And by that, I of course mean Cirque de So Lame. Honestly, dude? If you're going to be a gross douchebag who assaults women in public, do you think you might attempt to do it with a little more finesse than a 12 year old schoolboy at his first mixed-party-in-a-basement? You don't ask to grab someone's 'boobs' at a ball.

Then there was this lovely speciman (and doesn't he look a treat in his Today Tonight-esque mug shot there?) who's seriously attempting to pass off running a puerile cyber bullying website as some grand defence of free speech.

"Many of the victims are teenage girls who have had their name, photo and phone numbers posted, accompanied by invitations to bombard them with abusive phone calls and text messages or ask them for sex."

But what does Andew Pallant have to say about it?

"I don't put the pen in anybody's hand!"

Dude, that's the defence equivalent of responding to anything your sister says with "I know you are, but what am I?" and farting in her face. Grow up. These are real people's lives, you scum sucking misogynist douchebag.

This morning, I also learned that calling your fetus a 'fetus' and choosing to abort it might mean that later down the line when you actually want to keep your pregnancy, your crazy lady brain won't be able to distinguish between the two. So, you might actually HAVE your baby and think, but hang on! isn't it a fetus?

*confused*

And then you'll kill it. So ladies, make sure you NEVER refer to the thing growing inside of you as ANYTHING other than a BABY because you just might find yourself facing a life sentence and not quite knowing what happened. This message has come to you courtesy of a male columnist with no discernable fucking idea of what it feels like to have something growing inside of you, fetus or otherwise.

So there were all these anger-making (yes, I've read Scott Westerfeld) things to write about this morning, and I was all set to do it and spurning Lost and everything in favour of being a PROFESSIONAL person with GOALS and MOTIVATION.

And then I got a call from my editor telling me my column has been nixed. The paper is taking a new direction and I apparently do not fit in with that vision. Pants.

To my credit, I did not at that moment collapse into a heaping wreck and decide to take refuge in the warm, inviting hollows of Sawyer's dimples. Instead, I've done more work in one day trying to line up freelance work than I have in the entire past 14 months. Complacency is a terrible thing, but the removal of it is a fantastic motivator...

Ah well. I have a hollyday lined up to New York and Barcelona in August. Maybe I'll just stay there and ply my wares on the streets. I can change my name to Lila and acquaint myself with the world's oldest profession. Considering I've been doing just that for the last six months in this job anyway, I should be a dab hand at it.

And now I'm off to get blazed and excuse myself for smoking.