Oh for a teen idol worth some idolatry

I’ve never held much truck for teen idols. When I was a newly-minted (if not maddened) teen, proper pop music died it’s tragic death and I veered off the path to music that had mostly been released before I was born or I’d never heard before. At the time my peers were idolizing every hip-hop wannabe or anyone who could “rap” despite being a skinny white boy from a good background (really, it was just like Vanilla Ice for the new millennium) or the most manufactured and sickeningly “crowd-pleasing” (read: boring) singers around, thanks to Mr Cowell in his t-shirt and the advent of Idol, X Factor et al – not that they don’t have their merits, I just know that was the time I was supposed to admire the output of these programmes but just couldn’t care. Instead of Eminem and Green Day (which everyone my age had some unthinking admiration for), I didn’t just buck the trend but fucked it right off by getting into Kate Bush and (not sorry) Morrissey. Yes, while all the other kids were trying to, like, be in touch with their emotions, like with the whole “emo” lark of adenoidal complaining (My Chemical Romance); I was having my own little PROPER pity parties to the tunes of Mr Morrissey and yes, I did have a fave to be miz with: because I just hadn’t earned it yet. Baby.

Which brings me to the dearth of “teen idols” today, they being mainly Justin Bieber and One Direction (YUCK!) – has there been any greater musical crimes against humanity since Rebecca Black’s Friday (true story: the best thing to ever come out of that tuneless trust-funded track was me walking down Smith Street, Collingwood, and some guy was singing it at the top of his lungs “IT’S FRIDAY! FRIDAY!” and some kind soul put us all out of our misery by running up and king-hitting our atonal abuser. It could’ve been assault, but then it was Melbourne and so was more likely performance art in the tradition of Barry Humphries hitting his (pretending to be) blind friends with a stick). What I can’t fathom is why so many teenage girls swoon and lust after these fresh-faced and (damn them) clear-skinned pretty boys who in all honesty still probably haven’t fully developed. These are supposed to be teen idols?

See, those guys had actual talent – well, except Ringo – come on, Octopus’s Garden?

At least back in the day the teen idols had talent and were actually fully grown. My own grandmother wagged school to go see and scream at The Beatles when they were in Sydney. My mum swooned over Bruce Springsteen – see, grown up and TALENTED (actually, she’s still got the shits over not going to the concert yet her sister got offered a ticket to go and she wasn’t even a fan)! I passed any age-appropriate teen idol for me by but if anything I would’ve loved to have been around to fully appreciate Marc Bolan or David Bowie in their prime.

(And a quick check by text with Mumsie confirms that she was also into Leif Garrett (cut me a line, Leif!) and “Michael Jackson before he was white” – see? TALENT!)

So what’s the appeal of Bieber and 1D? They’re machine made and processed. Bieber started off looking like the stereotypical lesbian (as said to me by a lesbian, so don’t sue) and the boys from One Direction are just plain old middle-class bores. So much for Janet Street-Porter saying Harry Styles should teach philosophy to get kids learning, I doubt he’d even have the brains for that after being subjected to so much hairspray with that (GUFFAW!) Hugh Grant-esque flop on his head.

Just like that doco a while back about the fans of One Direction, where it was pretty much verified how nuts they are. The girl who allegedly killed her own dog so she could directly tweet the band that her dog died and so deserved a retweet for validation. And what’s with all those girls who fire off hate and invective – including death threats – to any potential female suitor of the boys? It’s not just jealousy, it’s psychopathy. Although I do think it’s interesting how so many of their fans dream of Harry and Liam getting it on in a homoerotic tryst. So it’s wrong to be with any other girl but fine for them to get it on amongst themselves? A small step towards equality? Boom boom.

I’ve recently started tweeting again – @thejoshholley for those who enjoy abusing conservative politicians in 140 characters or less and taking the piss out of ridiculous hashtags – and have been dismayed to find the hashtag “BumpMe1DLastTix” (I’m against it because I could never beg for anything, whether alms or 1D tickets) trending all hours of the day and night. So I used the tag to ask why don’t these girls just buy the tickets themselves and got a reply from a girl stating: “duhh we are poor white girls.”

Now, I identify as a pro-feminist (and yeah that probably seems patronizing but I’ve been given the go-ahead by the best “old-school” feminists around, including the aforementioned lesbian – and clearly, the O.S. type are the best) and so pointed out that perhaps, for a poor white girl, an education might be more worthwhile than screaming at a bunch of fops who’ll never even know they exist. Which of course gave me the adolescent response of “how bout no?”

So I decided to politely and out of genuine curiosity ask why it was OK for the boys to be gay with each other but not have a relationship with any other female. Is it a case of “I can’t have them then nobody else can” or just a petulant example of forbidden fruit?

A nice little chat.

So, I guess that particular fan still had some sort of smarts to know of The Beatles and a sense of humour too.

Twats of Twitter

Since rejoining the Twitter fray I take great joy in taking the piss out of any hashtag trending, the stupider the better. The best was last week when that paparazzo in New York rode his bicycle into Nicole Kidman, which for some unknown reason was treated as a big news story. Once it was trending I of course decided to go in for the kill and declared Kidman to be a “fake” and an annoying actor whose skill is to deny surgery and stare into the middle-distance in boring films (though To Die For and The Hours were FAB!) – cue the old joke about the guy just wanting to park his bicycle somewhere but she turned round the wrong way (and next, Bernard Manning on his mother-in-law). Cue me being called a “bitch” by some Twit Twat who took umbrage to my jibes.

Now, I don’t “feed trolls” and only engage when somebody has tweeted me first, and originally I did think this person was either a) a misguided teenage girl who should know better than to talk to strangers or b) a fat, sad old troll. So I had a bit of fun and traded insults with a somewhat worthy opponent. It’s a shame they stopped before I could ask them if actually were Muslim, because I’d JUST LOVE to know how they can call themselves that whilst enjoying all the trappings of Western materialistic excess.

Yes, wrong I know, but really I had nothing better to do and where else am I going to meet a 15 year-old bisexual boy who possibly may be Muslim and is a starfucker for teen idols (there they are again!) and Hollywood hell?

Tweet away, twits and twats and twunts!

Hair, dentistry and raging over rage.

I must apologise to any regular readers (if there is such a thing of this blog, I LOVE YOU!) about my silence for the last fortnight – I wanted to write an op-ed piece about the removal of Julia Gillard and hopefully get it published by either The Guardian or The Independent or other such publications outside Australia, after being questioned about it all by overseas friends on Facebook. Instead, it proved a lot harder than I’d thought to write, no doubt based on my own my own grieving and disgust. It will be added here soon but for now here’s a few thoughts on things that have happened for me in the last few days – yes, I’ve had a few drinks to get back in the writing mood so any errors will be rectified tomorrow when I’m sober.

GIVE ME A HEAD WITH HAIR

I’ve never understood how hair can be so controversial. I understand that hair can be a “sexual characteristic” and even cultural, but the trend for obliterating all traces of hair beneath the head has me scratching mine (head, that is – nowhere else). Why do so many people depilate and annihilate any trace of hair beneath the chin? I hate beards (I believe they’re a sign of laziness and moustaches are half-arsed and the facial-hair equivalent of bow ties – i.e. batshit crazy) but love long, flowing locks of hair based from the scalp. When I was 19 I tried to pull the look of long hair off – it was basically a “phase”, instead all I got were accusations of being gay (as Jerry Seinfeld would protest, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that” – but having my sexuality defined by my hair? Rack off) and an embarrassing learner’s permit photo.

The other night, after walking out in the rain (much like Grace Jones, the thinking person’s Lady Gaga), I came home and while taking off the wool and acrylic-blended jumper I’d been wearing revealed part of my stomach whilst pulling the item of clothing off. My lovely honarary second mother’s (whom I’m currently living with) youngest (aged 17) said to me, and I quote: “You hairy motherfucker” (I may if persuaded put up a shot of my belly a la Amanda Palmer, but what good would it achieve?).

Yes, I do have hair on my stomach and chest (but thankfully not anywhere from my upper to lower back, which in Kath & Kim parlance would clarily as a “welcome mat”, or “unsightly patch of hair just there”) and I’m perfectly fine with it – that is, I’ve never been concerned about it despite the proliferation of dull young things (especially males) who remove any patch of hair.

Don’t know what I mean? Consider the number of men today who don’t have any hair on their torsos – or even on their bodies below their head. I don’t know why hipsters fetishise having a beard or at least a goatee or even a “flavour saver” yet will happily shave their pubic hair. Why? Wouldn’t the regrowth be a bitch, as evidenced by the number of people (not just men) who are constantly scratching and rubbing away at their groins? And with women it’s even worse – there is (unfortunately) a cateogory of porn labelled “hairy” – a cursory glance at this reveals that the slightest amount of pubes intact is labelled as “hairy”; correct me if I’m wrong – I dare you – but isn’t the word “hairy” (HAIR-y) descriptive of having more hair than usual; which of course is true, as the usual in even “amateur” porn is hairless hedonists getting horny – but within normal (and natch) abundance of pubic hair by those who are not vain or virulent at waxing (ouch): why should a normal amount be described as more than necessary to horny fools? I personally would describe the word “hairy” as having more “hair” than necessary – as in a forest or like a Greek (yeah, the PC brigade will be on me after that), but I still can’t fathom how a normal amount of pubes is considered more than necessary?

Just look at a pic of anyone nude who has removed their pubes and they end up looking like an anthropomorphic slug (at least to me – how else to describe a hairless pale blob?) – and to all those who say that a pic of someone who has removed their pubes enables pedophiles and claims that “it says more about the accuser than us” well, I don’t believe you look like a child without pubic hair – I think you just look silly, strange, vain and a slave to society’s bizarre rationale that you should have no hair beneath your (most likely ugly) heads. As much as I agree with Julie Burchill’s proclamation that any guy with more body hair than sense is an “ape” (I don’t have a FOREST of hair) and looking like something out of the Fortean Times (the most intellectual magazine at Rockhampton South Library), anyone who completely removes the pubes in an act of hair genocide is a fool, and should be pointed and laughed at more often.

It is us who don’t feel the need to conform to a bunch of (usually American) losers who hack and shave at anything that adds actual age and maturity to bodies, instead of the truly ugly and overdone idyll and ideal of having a hair-free bag of bones to show off to any horny loser who wants to get their rocks off and throws their stones at everyone regardless.

THE WHOLE TRUTH ABOUT THE TOOTH

On Friday I had a tooth removed for the first time – yes, I probably need at least three gone due to both genetics and lifestyle choices – I remember as a kid whilst waiting at the dentist my mum said to me, “I’m so sorry about your teeth. It’s my fault.” The most broken tooth got it’s breakage back in early 2011 and I’ve had it since then, after a week the pain went and so of course I put off going to get it seen to. There’s another one that only occasionally gets food stuck in it but has never caused me any pain so why take action now?
Actually, the Saturday before the tooth I had extracted started playing up (despite being unbroken and securely snug as the second to the back of my lower left set; “3-6” in dental terms) and got worse – for some reason drinking water stopped the pain for a minute at most so I enacted my own form of civilized water torture on my mouth (cue being too hydrated, feeling sick and hearing water slosh and churn throughout my stomach at night) to keep the pain away, however briefly.

As I’m currently unemployed, on Tuesday morning after two days of suffering chronic pain (no doubt my fault) I made my way up to the dental clinic at Gympie Hospital only to discover that adults aren’t treated there, only children and the elderly and was given a “voucher” to the value of $260 to see a private dentist in town. The first I went to couldn’t fit me in until the 30th, the next was the following Tuesday and the lucky last got me in that afternoon after actually listening to my protests of pain (Anglophile that I am, I doubt the NHS would’ve made me wait that long; though I’d probably get MRSA as part of the treatment).
So after finally getting into the dentist’s chair on Tuesday afternoon and having my gob inspected (by Dr. Gary Wells of Gympie Family Dental – if you ever need dentistry in Gympie, Gary’s your man – calm, friendly and gently explains the process beforehand for those with a phobia of anything more pressing than a filling), I went home with a course of antibiotics and paracetamol and codeine (which, despite having previously taken Oxycontin and Tramadol recreationally, gave me a nice little buzz that left me curiously content – grinning inanely like Beavis or Butthead) until I returned on Friday to get the tooth pulled (ha ha – I can’t pull my teeth have been).

So, Friday as Judgment Day (in Dr. Well’s words, “We’ll get it out on Friday so you can have a nice, quiet weekend.”) and I arrived early for my 3.30 appointment (I’m always unfashionably punctual) and received at least six injections of anaesthetic to my jaw (I lost count) before the extraction got under way. As with all modern dentists, they provide a TV screen above the chair for the patient to focus on as the surgery takes place – normally I ask to view ABC’s News 24 (it doesn’t make me happy but I do focus intently on it to the detriment of my surrounds), however I wasn’t asked and a Jethro Tull reunion DVD was on so I numbly settled down to the sounds of flute solos while somebody rooted round amongst my roots for the next half hour – actually, the fluto solo reached a crescendo and my inner monologue responded with “Now! Get out ya bastard!”, directed at the tooth. Come on, once the soundtrack reaches the crescendo, isn’t that the moment for the resolution?

So there I was, plonked in a dentists’ chair with my mouth numbed and having my head held in place by the assistant as the dentist moved and wiggled my teeth with an instrument called “cowhorns” to pull the rotting tooth out. The only pain I had was when the dentist put his hand on my lower mouth to get a better grip and my two front teeth at the bottom bit into my lip and the feeling like my left eye was going to burst out of it’s socket and I’d be able to get a Lab or Golden Retriever out of it. Either that or a Vivienne Westwood eyepatch from the “Pirates” collection (I know my fashion – sad but true).

Despite being only a bit nervous about the procedure and having my fears calmed by the dentist saying, “It may take 10 minutes, it may take 15 minutes or a bit longer – but it’s alright, we’ll get it out”, halfway through I felt all hot (in body temperature, not looks – I’ve no delusions) and was wishing I’d had this done during summer for the air-conditioning. Turns out I’d actually produced buckets of sweat and had left the vinyl chair with a sheen of moisture (sorry), and having my brow wiped down by the assistant, who luckily said I had the “usual” reaction all males have, apparently the females she’s seen have the same extraction usually burst into tears (sadly). – turns out despite not consciously being scared of having a tooth pulled I’d ended up in shock anyway and even after the offending tooth was removed my vision was replaced with stars as if I was about to pass out (like on Anzac Day 2011 when I actually collapsed from a panic attack for the first time and had a fun ambulance ride, hospital admission and was scared to admit I was anxious and depressed lest the cops come round and confiscate my bootlaces – seriously, I actually thought that) and took up a “dying swan” position in the chair for 10 minutes post-op, furtively sucking on a few jellybeans to recover. Oh well, at least the infection was gone too.

Dentist: That didn’t take as long as I thought it would.

Me: (with left side of mouth numb and a wodge of gauze in place) Is the tooth out?

Dentist: Oh, yeah. Sorry! I got it out. You’re fine.

So I left being advised to abstain from physical activity (I’d walked to the surgery and walked back home after), sport (easily done), hot beverages (no cuppa for me) and smoking for the next 24 hours. Thankfully after signing a form and talking to the receptionist after my oral op I didn’t have to use the letter ‘S’ (which of course I lisped with the gauze in my mouth – no saying “666 sailors are seasick” or “spotty socks” for moi) until I stupidly stopped at the newsagent on the way home and asked “How much is your EFTPOSSHHH minimum?” Oh well – I finally got the balls (or the ovaries, as my lovely old-school feminist friends would say) to go to the dentist and get something more than an easy filling done. I only share this with you as an example of the fact I’m finally more “adult” (i.e. “grown” and acting my age) by going to the dentist and getting the proper treatment I know I should have (and need) instead of the usual cowing to the pain disappearing and leaving it. A small step towards getting over my usual tag of “Angry Young Man”, as I was given when I was 19.

RAGING OVER RAGE

Last Saturday the ABC’s rage (of which I’ve been a fan since the age of seven) had a NAIDOC Week-themed playlist, compiled by Wayne Blair, actor and director of The Sapphires and Redfern Now. Lefty that I am, I’m all for coverage of and expounding Indigenous culture and watched for an hour or two in the hope of seeing Warrumpi Band’s “Blackfella Whitefella” (“Blackfella/whitefella/it doesn’t matter, what ya colour/as long as you, are true fella/as long as you are, real fella”), one of the most criminally underrated songs EVER! Please listen to it – and if you don’t play it on repeat after hearing it, I will punch you in the throat, such is my love. I’m not patronising the plight of the Indigenous tribes of this country – I’m all for apologising (thank you Kevin Rudd and fuck you, Sophie Mirabella), who have been displaced, exterminated (hello, Tasmania!) and left to wallow in poverty and patronising and well-meaning bother by successive governments – but why did an episode of rage celebrating NAIDOC Week have to include African-American artists who are black with a capital-B? Thankfully, there were the obligatory videos of Midnight Oil’s “Beds are Burning” and Archie Roach. Please! Before you write to me, I’m not racist – I’m actually doing a reverse of Andrew Bolt here. Why do people of a skin tone less than milky white have to act like they’re 50 Cent or Snoop Dogg?

Back in 2007, I was going to TAFE for a measly Cert III in Visual Arts & Contemporary Crafts and on the train-ride to the campus the train would stop at Coorparoo where a group of students I’d see every day of African descent would go to school and try and intimidate other passengers by standing over them and speaking in French (were they from C’ote D’Ivoire?). Wrongly they’d chosen to pick me (of very slowly self-taught basic French) and stand over me whilst proclaiming like a Francaise gangsta, “Parles vous Francais?” There was me, sitting on my own and listening to the sounds of (back then) either Morrissey, Kirsty MacColl or post-Culture Club Boy George. Of course I eventually told them to “va te faire foutre” or something like that, and thus was left alone. Really, I’m all for acknowledgement of racial and cultural backgrounds (as I’ve said before, I am a Lefty), especially the Indigenous – but why should people act as a stereotype? Before you know it the Irish will be fully-paid up members of Vatican I or II, oh, hang on …

— LINKS TO BE ADDED WITHIN 48 HOURS