An ode to Ziggy, Aladdin and The Thin White Duke

If you hadn't already guessed, I really, really like David Bowie. So much so that until recently I had quite a large, slightly creepy shrine to the man perched atop my bookcase. So this is where I get a tad sentimental
and explain just why I love him so darn much.

I don't want to go down the road of ''he was a pioneer who challenged conservative values and inspired outcasts and weirdos everywhere to be themselves'' but, um... he pretty much did. The man means a lot to me on a few different planes. First of all, just wow, his music. It's not only catchy, emotive and fun at the one time, but his lyrics speak volumes. Rock'n'Roll Suicide never fails to bring me to tears, and don't even get me started on Lady Grinning Soul. Along with the music, there's the look. Even when getting slapped across the face would fail to  register a reaction due to extreme cocaine use, the boy still managed to look good. From glitter clad onesies to well-fitted suits, Bowie was never one to follow trends. Whether understated or completely over the top, he somehow always managed to look completely authentic, something later glam-rockers failed to do ( take note, KISS). But aside from the music, the one thing I admire most about David Bowie is the freedom he gave the world. Every song, outfit or sultry glare down the barrel of a camera lens (do camera lenses have barrels? Probably not, no) exudes the attitude of "this is what I'm doing now, deal with it". His challenging of the claustrophobic norm allowed (among other things) men to wear lipstick and women to dye their hair shocking orange and don a slimming suit. And for that David, I thank you. Of course Mick Jagger took pride in looking a little like a woman (just watch Performance, seriously), but no-one did it quite as well as Bowie. And so for that I raise my glass to Ziggy, Aladdin and The Thin White Duke.


Noelio, why did you have to go? Noelio, we really loved you so.

So I promised a post and here one is... a day late, a surprise if ever there was one.
Also the title of this post is a Boosh Live reference, not just me bein' a creep. Thought I'd clear that up...
So approximately this time last night I was filing into the Sydney Opera House, complete with butterfly filled stomach and flower-crowned head to watch the marvellous comedic stylings of the unimaginable Noel Fielding.
I cried.
Not joking.
Have a look at my face being all excited and flustered;

I know, ew.

It was truly a beautiful night. Noel was almost identical to the Noel I first laid my eyes on half a decade ago when he crashed onto my television screen, Julian in tow, and made that oh-so lasting impression. The support acts were brilliant, just brilliant, well except this one flake who kept making perverted references to his daughters vagina (I really, really don't know), but him aside, just ugh. One of my favourite little memorable quips of the night came from the wonderful (and new to me) Hannibal Buress and went as follows; (when describing getting mugged)
Robber: "I'm gonna shoot the shit outta you"
Hannibal: "What? Ain't my blood enough? Fuckin' overachiever" 
You had to be there.

It was so wonderfully surreal seeing this man I had all but worshipped for most of my tween/teen years leaping about a mere ten metres in front of me. And as always there was a part of me that was begging for attention, my mind screaming "Hey, you, shiny androgynous man there, make a reference/ address that young lass in the audience that you are probably actually unable to see due to lighting but you should be able to sense telepathically because you two are just so alike, unlike all the other peasants here", but that part of me (okay I don't actually think like that, just so you know) was soon won over by the contentment of just sitting quietly in awe of this man. I was okay that he would never learn and then soon forget my name, I was okay that there would be no awkward photo plastered on Facebook of he and I gracelessly side-hugging, and I was really quite okay that I didn't get his name scribbled on one or more of my possessions (hey, I had already done that enough myself).
He happened to mention that his nanna used to make clothes for Jimi Hendrix (how fucking cool is that, by the way?) and I couldn't stop myself; Jimi Hendrix certainly deserved a "woo!" of appreciation.
Apparently I was the only one who thought so, and was subsequently the only one who let out a "woohoo" into an otherwise silent Opera House politely awaiting Noel Fielding to finish his joke.
Embarrassment ensued.
But all was okay. Becuase Noel Fielding then said "Damn, only one woo for Jimi Hendrix, woo!"
Guys. He acknowledged my woo.
That pretty much translates to him permitting to me having his babies.
Right guys?
Okay, not right. But still that set me up for pretty crushing post-Fielding depression once the lights blackened and the stage was swept. I had foolishly thought that an acknowledgement from a hero would complete my apparently empty life. Yeah, no. But once again, all is okay. He is after all, just a man. And maybe it's taken me a little bit of growing up to admit that, and I don't believe for one second that any of this makes any sense, but growing up is actually an alright thing. Fan-girling is brilliant, but growing up is important, too, otherwise there would far too much celebrity chasing and agony that one life time can handle.

So I guess what I've learnt from this experience is that even though you may think you have out grown that 12 year old  frenzied fan-girl stage in which you experience a fever pitch to rival Beatlemania, it will always rear it's head in one not so subtle way or another from time to time. And it's actually really fun just to go along with the ride, as long as at the end of the night you can be satisfied with just being in the same room as one of your favourite people.

Anyhow, this post isn't making a lot of sense, so at the very least it can double as my very first outfit post (gasp!)
I didn't pre-prepare a photo and I look horrible as I am actually about to hoist my leg onto my friends waist in that douchey pose you often see YOUNG AND CAREFREE teenage girls doing. I'm kind of winking as well, only adding to the douchey effect. So enjoy this ridiculously unflattering photo...

So uh, dress (worn as shirt) was my mothers from the seventies, skirt from Kmart (reppin' the mart!), collar cut from a shirt my brother's ex betrothed to me, fairy toys and gems hot glue gunned on by me (so handy, y'all), both flower crowns made by me, blood necklace from Dangerfield (you can see both collar and necklace better in the first photo), jacket from Dotti or some other miscellaneous chain-store, as are the shoes.
So there you go, a very small taste of le wardrobe, taken on King street, Newtown.
The lovely lady in the photograph with me is Lizzy, my fellow Noel devotee, and (almost) life-long friend. The photos are here thanks to her.

So life is great. TTFN xx


The Only Living Boy In New York

I am so very sorry for the lack of posting, I have just started my utmost senior year of high school and in a bout of self righteousness I have temporarily decided that that frees me of all previous obligation. Sike. I'm hoping to have a post assembled by tomorrow or the day after, perhaps about David Bowie or something completely different. For now I'll leave you with a relatively old but still pretty groovy shoot from Used magazine.
P.S Yippee for completely irrelevant post title.


Femme Fatales | Part V | Joni Mitchell

I'm resurrecting my 'Femme Fatales' series, just because I can.

So, Joni Mitchell.
I don't believe anything I write could express the amount of admiration and adoration I have for this woman and her music. You really just have to listen to her tunes and immerse yourself in her voice and lyrics to fully grasp the influence on me. Although she proves to be a little too judgemental for my liking, slating various heroes of mine, such as Bob Dylan, Grace Slick and Janis Joplin, she is never one to back down from her own opinion, and I quite like that. Although the free love and drug culture of the sixties has always intrigued me, her scepticism about that lifestyle leads me to believe that Joni's not one to bow easily to peer pressure. She's a beautiful individual who has been able to hold her ground and integrity as a solo female performer, and she's really just delightful.