Hating with Honesty Part II
An aspect of our culture that really busts my blisters is when we all think we have to like something just because everybody else seems to like it. I've developed a list of things I personally can't stand (aka known as the original 'Hating with Honesty' post) despite the rest of the world seemingly loving them to bits, and feel that it's time to add a second column.
Fashion. Speaking from the wisdom of being two decades older than the female market that most of the ridiculous styles of clothing is aimed at, I can also say that I'm relieved that I no longer feel the pressure to be 'in' or have the interest to be 'in'. Even today, on our way home after Yum Cha in the city, we popped into 'Trims' on Pulteney Street. The store is an Adelaide institution and you could always find a $15 pair of Levis next to some blundstone boots from the 1960s hidden behind the later models of thermal underwear.
Not any more. Levis are $149 *after* applying the 30% discount displayed all over the store and are in miniscule sizes or the unfortunate styles of 'low rise flares' or 'ultra skinny leg'. Not to mention witnessing the evil greediness of seeing decades-old converse sneakers priced at $89 -Trims, how could you?
Dr Who. Sorry Brit-nerds, I just don't get why this show has endured for so long. Lots of children were terrorised by the scary masks of various bad guys or the daleks but even at the age of seven, when Jon Pertwee was busy running around in his velour dinner jacket and frilled shirt, I could see the dodgy special effects and pathetic sets and felt contempt more than fright. Wobbly sets, ill-fitting rubber suits and monsters made of spray-painted loo plungers and egg cartons make it too hard to get into whatever ridiculous space-age, inter-dimensional delusion we were supposed to be involving ourselves in.
The latest doctor is the insane snake-like son from one of the Harry Potter movies and appears to be playing the role on intravenous doses of Red Bull and espresso. Any credulity is snapped further than a worn out bungee cord when a facelifted Kylie Minogue appears as the guest girlie and kisses him - could her forehead be stretched any tighter? Her eyebrows are in danger of meeting up at the back of her neck.
French manicured finger nails
These obviously fake, square nails with the white bits painted on are usually worn by chicky babes a bit on the chubbo end of the spectrum. As with their tiger-striped hair highlights or lined lips, they seem to think that having tombstones on the ends of their fingers will detract attention away from the size of their arses.
Perhaps they're right, but they still look hideous. They also tell the onlooker that their owner does sweet FA work with her hands - those babies ain't fit for gardening, washing, chopping veges, scrubbing floors, painting or scrubbing pots and pans. Maybe that's why their arses are so large. Do the French really have nails like these? If so, I thought that French women never got fat?
These external roll-a-blinds seem to be favoured by home owners who want security and already own properties that lean towards the ugly side. Protection and privacy from what I'm not completely sure - sunshine and views, maybe? Let's face it - if a burglar wants to break in and steal your stuff, he (or she) will be able enter your home by more ways than just the windows. Plus, having them shuttered means that they'll be able to rifle through your belongings at their leisure without being noticed by passersby.
The place I've photographed here is in my neighbourhood and seems to be permanently closed to the world outside, resembling a face without any eyes. Not having the windows visible removes all traces of the house's character (what little it does have). Ugly, pointless and inadvertently dangerous. Not unlike Barry Hall.
Clearasil - it annoys the living crap out of me that, at age 39 and a half, I've recently had to buy a tube of the skin-coloured stuff to combat the colony of dots that have appeared on my neck. Unfortunately, it still pongs as badly as it did in 1983 and lingers long after the t-shirt or pillow has been washed.
When our daughter Sapphire reaches the puberty/zit infestation/interest-in-having-sex stage of her young life, I'll be encouraging her to slather her face in this gunk under the pretense of having pimple-free skin - the stench will hopefully keep any potential de-flowerers at bay. Along with Love Chunks' headlock-of-death and 24/7 chaperoning system of course.
Batman movies. Sling these into the reject bin next to the Dr Who episodes. Why the movies are made to be so dark and serious when he's a comic book character wearing a tight suit with a face-obscuring black balaklava/mask ensemble based on a BAT is beyond me. How the hell did he manage to sew that on his granny's singer hidden at the back of the bat cave?
I find these oh-so-dark films unintentionally hilarious - Michael Keaton's camp pout had me sniggering and at one stage I wanted to know just why Gotham City didn't seem to know of the existence of fluoro tubes or decent over-head lighting (same with the couple in X-files: why use a torch to investigate a crime or UFO-scene when you can flick a switch, or better still, wait until daylight?)
I'll say it first - she's way younger and a damn sight prettier than I was, or ever will be. However her 'humour', especially when I was first 'introduced' to it by Paul McDermott on ABC's 'The Sideshow' was obviously so subtle and subliminal that I didn't even notice that its presence (is she his niece?). Granted, she's improved a wee bit on 'Good News Week' but somehow she seems to think that she's cute and this will therefore add 99% more hilarity to her act. Not for me it doesn't. It just makes me want to smack her smug horsey face and send her to Woolies to be their cheerful, free ranging 'price check' girl.
That Ryan Shelton guy from Rove
This tool should marry Claire so that he can be the bloke who sprays the lettuces in the fruit-and-vege section. I'm sure he's a perfectly nice chap to have a coffee with, or to collect up all the stray shopping trolleys and put them back in the special parking bays nearer to the shop's entrance.
Like young Claire, he obviously thinks he's funny, but surrounding himself with Rove and Hamish shows him up to be about as amusing as a dead kitten at a christening.
His little 'how to' segments on the show are painfully, get-a-brazilian-wax-in-slo-mo weak. Piss weak. If he's the future of funnydom in Australia, then let's bring in some of those hilarious Belgians, Uzsbechishtanis and Norwegians instead.
All I want to say to Mr Timberlake is, "No, you're NOT bringing sexy back. Quite the opposite in fact."
Sexy is NOT a high-pitched, pasty-faced Michael-Jackson wannabe wearing a vest with blue jeans. If it was, the world's librarians would all be dating supermodels and promoting their own line of cardigans and pocket pen holders.
Frickin' FM radio stations - there are two reasons:
1) Deciding to stick with 'classic' songs but selecting only twenty of them to play ad-infinitem for the next two decades. There's only so much Barnesy, Farnesy, Rolling Stones, Bon Jovi, Guns-n-Roses, John Mellencamp and Cold Chisel one can endure, and that was back in 1989. Nor, when they advertise a 'back to the eighties lunchtime mix' do I want to hear the same "ten songs that'll take you back". I swear that SAFM play 'Don't you forget about me,' 'Always something there to remind me,' 'What I like about you' and 'Let's Dance' as often as anything on the mushroom record label dating from 1980 to 1987.
2) Not bothering to tell us the name of the song or the artist/band who made it. We seem to get our 'fifty minutes of music without ads' peppered with the DJ reminding us that we're getting our 'fifty minutes of music without ads' between each and every song, but if a song pops up that sounds good - a rarity for me these days - I'd like to know what it was. But that's information they'd be giving away for free, isn't it? They want to me SMS them for the song info or visit their website in order to be bombarded with more advertising whilst searching for the playlist. What they've forgotten is that, unlike the 15 year olds who can watch 'Rage' on Friday night and Saturday morning without having to turn it off before their nine year old daughter sees it and learns that being famous means wearing a string-bikini and writhing suggestively over a gansta rapper - we have more disposable income and are likely to buy an album rather than a song download.
Actually, I have a third reason - 3) employing semi-retarded, no-talent, ex-reality tv 'stars' as zany breakfast show hosts. Why bother with wit, talent and the ability to think quickly on your feet if you can have someone who snogged a transvestite in the pool at the Big Brother compound or who was once the eyebrow plucker to a Hollywood star?
Whew. I think I'll go and have a GnT and a lie down now......