In an age of tragic death being as common as the sun rising every morning, we are still very emotional and heartfelt beings when it comes to the subject. We do not need to have personally known someone who has fallen to be affected by their loss. Celebrities are the case in point; when Princess Diana died, her funeral invited mourners from across the globe that cried and grieved louder than any visible Royal (not surprising). When Michael Jackson passed away, his family hosted a public memorial where celebrities, including a former adversary, Brooke Shields, paid their respects to the man once convicted of child molestation. Apart from some London fans and some quiet music executives, there has been no real shock to the loss of singer Amy Winehouse.
It is not necessarily the reaction of Hollywood that has interested me, it is my own social response to the “tragedy” that is of interest. I discovered her death on Facebook. I was scrolling through my “Most Recent” feed as I do every morning; the first post listed was a friend’s link to the Australian detailing her death. I followed the link promptly, for an average Sunday morning it was the most interesting post that could be potentially up there. It doesn’t say much of my friends when I say they usually post a nag about a hangover that could kill a horse. I skimmed the article. All seemed as expected: woman found dead in apartment, nothing overly suspicious about the circumstances, a rehab regular celebrity’s name attached to the death notice. I returned my Facebook page and continued to look through the posts. Her death coinciding with the morning of the big Tour de France time trial, there were more posts about Cadel’s victory than anything else.
“What a waste”, I thought. “Not a shock, really, but a waste. She had so much talent wasted.”
But things were long gone for Amy Winehouse in my mind. Since 2007 she has been in and out of rehab, she hasn’t produced an album since Back in Black and has not made a sober/credible performance since the album release. I viewed her as a musical gem, a talented soul that would make waves with everything she did. But as I watched her own demise, self perpetuated by drugs and rebellion, I grew less empathy for her wasted talents and became resigned to the idea of her being unable to recover. I guess I wasn’t the only what one who thought that; Amy’s mother, Janis, said she saw her daughter the day before her death and it was apparent that her daughter’s death was “only a matter of time”.
For a member of the general public, have I presumed, not knowing the intimate details of Amy’s life, that she had a timer on her life that was due to go off prematurely? Through the articles and photos I saw of her self harming and constant drug abuse, did I assume the worst had already happened to her? Did I just expect to one day pick up the paper and read about this? Did it just happen to be Sunday was the day?
I guess the same could be said of the demise of other troubled celebrities; the antics of Lindsay Lohan. I roll my eyes every time I hear she has broken another restraining order or is heading back to jail. If they threw away the keys for years on Lohan’s life, I am sure I wouldn’t bat an eyelid. The phrase “I could see it coming” would be the first thing on the tip of my tongue.
I feel I should apologize for not feeling more sadness for Amy’s death. Despite me never knowing her, I feel this should not excuse a lack of tears and sadness for such a great talent’s passing. But I guess from shock can come great sadness, so I wish it was more of surprise, for the sake of my conscience.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Beautiful Bali Beach and the tale of the Old Man’s sarongs
Once upon a time, there was a girl who went to Bali for a holiday.
There is a special quality to the Bali life of ex-pats and how that lifestyle is reflected in their fashion. As I met dozens of these ex-pats, I kept stumbling similar qualities of their dress, their physical appearance in terms of beauty treatments, hair, facial adjustments. I had never seen people who looked like this. They were like aliens to me and I wanted to go up to them and prod them to check they were actually real.
I didn’t know what an ex-pat was until I arrived in Bali; my travelling companion, the Boyfriend, pointed out the label of these people once we had met a couple of them. He explained they were people who had moved to Bali for work or now retired leisure. In short, they were immigrants to the country that had more money than the locals who enjoy the lower cost of living and the all year round heat.
I was at the most enchanting beach party in Seminyak; I had managed to scheme my way into an engagement party between a fat, rounded American and an over-plastic surgeon worked Australian woman, both of which were well into their forties. Both were lovely and had a very sweet, accepting manner and kindly let me be a part of their celebrations. I had the best spot at the beach party. I parked myself on a wicker chair in the far corner of the beach that the party occupied. From here, I could cite a full length view of the guests walking in and the entire scope of the party once they had arrived. It became a game as I judged, unfairly, every guest’s entire appearance with special attention being paid to the item of their wardrobe they chose to wear.
The unofficial uniform of an ex-pat consists of a key staple qualities; everything must be linen and bellow off the skin into the wind revealing charcoaled, wrinkled skin. The females are constricted by halter neck tops or dresses that push their bosoms up to nestle under their chins. They wear over strapped heels in the sand that are a pastel peep toe. The men are all in white three quarter capris or sarongs; all are bare foot with perfectly manicured toes and a severe allergy to closed leather shoes. Everyone is worked to an inch of their life by the friendly local plastic surgeon and their make-up, men and women included, is sprayed on like wall paint.
I don’t know what it about these people but you can see in it their manner, their relaxed shoulders that they are so very happy. Am I envious of how they live? I can’t quite work out if I am. Can I be an ex-pat when I am older if it means sans linen and plastic surgery?
There is a special quality to the Bali life of ex-pats and how that lifestyle is reflected in their fashion. As I met dozens of these ex-pats, I kept stumbling similar qualities of their dress, their physical appearance in terms of beauty treatments, hair, facial adjustments. I had never seen people who looked like this. They were like aliens to me and I wanted to go up to them and prod them to check they were actually real.
I didn’t know what an ex-pat was until I arrived in Bali; my travelling companion, the Boyfriend, pointed out the label of these people once we had met a couple of them. He explained they were people who had moved to Bali for work or now retired leisure. In short, they were immigrants to the country that had more money than the locals who enjoy the lower cost of living and the all year round heat.
I was at the most enchanting beach party in Seminyak; I had managed to scheme my way into an engagement party between a fat, rounded American and an over-plastic surgeon worked Australian woman, both of which were well into their forties. Both were lovely and had a very sweet, accepting manner and kindly let me be a part of their celebrations. I had the best spot at the beach party. I parked myself on a wicker chair in the far corner of the beach that the party occupied. From here, I could cite a full length view of the guests walking in and the entire scope of the party once they had arrived. It became a game as I judged, unfairly, every guest’s entire appearance with special attention being paid to the item of their wardrobe they chose to wear.
The unofficial uniform of an ex-pat consists of a key staple qualities; everything must be linen and bellow off the skin into the wind revealing charcoaled, wrinkled skin. The females are constricted by halter neck tops or dresses that push their bosoms up to nestle under their chins. They wear over strapped heels in the sand that are a pastel peep toe. The men are all in white three quarter capris or sarongs; all are bare foot with perfectly manicured toes and a severe allergy to closed leather shoes. Everyone is worked to an inch of their life by the friendly local plastic surgeon and their make-up, men and women included, is sprayed on like wall paint.
I don’t know what it about these people but you can see in it their manner, their relaxed shoulders that they are so very happy. Am I envious of how they live? I can’t quite work out if I am. Can I be an ex-pat when I am older if it means sans linen and plastic surgery?
Friday, July 1, 2011
Dancing in the Dirt.
"But they do say some pretty harsh stuff and it affects everyone and their inspiration. You do 30 hours of practice a week and it's hard to go into that after some bad feedback."
Damien Leith, June 30th 2011 – Dancing With The Stars Constestant 2011
When will dancing return to being a beautiful classical form of expression that people enjoy as opposed to a money hungry media blood bath?
I became nervous, back in 2004, when I heard that Channel 7 was producing their own version of the BBC’s Dancing with the Stars, as did most in the dancing community. Since its first airing on Australian screens, the culture of formal dancing, not just boogie on down at the disco, has taken a three hundred and sixty degree circle of popularity and influence on the community. And in ten years time, I doubt we will remember what it felt like to be in height of the dancing hype.
I am a Ballroom and Latin dancer; I say that with much authority. I can teach the styles with confidence as leader and follower; simply put I can be the man or the woman depending on the situation and how many champagnes I have under my belt. I have learned dancing since I was eight. Now that I am twenty three I can say I am an old fart at the sport.
My dancing life started with the movie Strictly Ballroom and a square patch of concrete in my backyard. Hours upon hours I would spend trying to replicate the moves, especially that magnificent Samba that Scott unveils his devilish “own steps” to. The movie nailed the costumes of the era, the styling of the dancing, as well as the controversy of the industry, but also highlighted just some honest, good dancing. Every dance in that movie was beautiful to watch, giving credit to the Australian actors who passed the acting and dance tests. What spawned from Strictly Ballroom, besides my immediate rush to become the world’s best ever dancer, was a greater realisation by the Australian cinematic industry that this country has potential to make quality films that translate into other audiences. The movie grossed eleven million in the US; that was a lot for the olden days. But the film did dick all for dancing industry. Instead it painted most dancers as pretentious, over dramatic queens that have nothing better to do than just destroy the confidence of the pure hearted. Ok, yes, they nailed the type but still, it did nothing.
So hope could have been restored with the premiere of Dancing with the Stars; experts in their field lay it on the line to dance for a disco balled crowned statue. How courageous they are to receive payments for stepping out of their comfort zone on national TV. If it was “inspiration” I was after, I would rather see them be thrown into snake pit and watch them try and crawl their way out. If they got out alive, that’s worth admiring them for.
Within the first moments of watching the show, the way in which the “celebrities”, if we are to so call them that, bitched on about how hard it was to learn the routines made me think: “Bull shit. You have been taught for a full week of intense training and you have learned basics with flares and tricks at the end. Any moron could learn that.” To make matters worse, a friend at the time asked me if it was really that hard to learn how to dance. I naturally scoffed; the show has painted this as the most challenging thing to do ever!
As I scoffed, dance instructors laughed their asses off as the work just poured in. I guess you just can’t fault the power of what celebrities can influence. It is the simple case of monkey see, monkey do and even the most intelligent of people are not immune to media influence. The dancing industry became big booming business overnight; people flocked into the studios, all wanting to learn what Bec Cartwright performed the night before. So as the show gained its mass following, the dance industry reaped the rewards with money flowing into lessons every day.
But I think the show, and other shows like So You Think You Can Dance and the ....Got Talent franchise, has turned the actual experience of dancing savage. Younger generations are learning that dancing is purely competitive and about being the best technical and creative dancer possible. They are learning that if they don’t achieve this level of dancing ability then they do not amount to be a “Dancer”. Even the title premise of “So You Think You Can Dance?” suggests that those who thought they could move will be no doubt be proven wrong because their ability to dance will not be good enough. The sad part is that unlike Australian Idol, there is no high paying career or career projection from winning the show. So many dancers go through the turmoil of being made to feel inadequate and for what?
So what enjoyment is there of dancing when constantly being judged with every move being scrutinized and there being no reward in such criticism? If you played a sport I would understand; the potential to earn big money is very real. In Australia, there is not much for a dancer and the entertainment industry is tough and cut throat.
The backlash that the celebrities go through on Dancing With The Stars is even worse. And we seem to except it as celebrities get roasted daily on the front page of Newspapers and magazines so why not whilst they dance too. The saddest part of all is dancing is so beautiful and so pleasurable to be a part of. And teaching dance is such a rewarding profession. But, as the show approaches its eleventh series, the dancing industry no longer feels the warmth of enthusiasm from the public to dance. The influx of business has slowed and as the public grows tired of the show so do they of the industry. Now we suffer with the burden of expectation of excellence without the support of the public.
Damien Leith, June 30th 2011 – Dancing With The Stars Constestant 2011
When will dancing return to being a beautiful classical form of expression that people enjoy as opposed to a money hungry media blood bath?
I became nervous, back in 2004, when I heard that Channel 7 was producing their own version of the BBC’s Dancing with the Stars, as did most in the dancing community. Since its first airing on Australian screens, the culture of formal dancing, not just boogie on down at the disco, has taken a three hundred and sixty degree circle of popularity and influence on the community. And in ten years time, I doubt we will remember what it felt like to be in height of the dancing hype.
I am a Ballroom and Latin dancer; I say that with much authority. I can teach the styles with confidence as leader and follower; simply put I can be the man or the woman depending on the situation and how many champagnes I have under my belt. I have learned dancing since I was eight. Now that I am twenty three I can say I am an old fart at the sport.
My dancing life started with the movie Strictly Ballroom and a square patch of concrete in my backyard. Hours upon hours I would spend trying to replicate the moves, especially that magnificent Samba that Scott unveils his devilish “own steps” to. The movie nailed the costumes of the era, the styling of the dancing, as well as the controversy of the industry, but also highlighted just some honest, good dancing. Every dance in that movie was beautiful to watch, giving credit to the Australian actors who passed the acting and dance tests. What spawned from Strictly Ballroom, besides my immediate rush to become the world’s best ever dancer, was a greater realisation by the Australian cinematic industry that this country has potential to make quality films that translate into other audiences. The movie grossed eleven million in the US; that was a lot for the olden days. But the film did dick all for dancing industry. Instead it painted most dancers as pretentious, over dramatic queens that have nothing better to do than just destroy the confidence of the pure hearted. Ok, yes, they nailed the type but still, it did nothing.
So hope could have been restored with the premiere of Dancing with the Stars; experts in their field lay it on the line to dance for a disco balled crowned statue. How courageous they are to receive payments for stepping out of their comfort zone on national TV. If it was “inspiration” I was after, I would rather see them be thrown into snake pit and watch them try and crawl their way out. If they got out alive, that’s worth admiring them for.
Within the first moments of watching the show, the way in which the “celebrities”, if we are to so call them that, bitched on about how hard it was to learn the routines made me think: “Bull shit. You have been taught for a full week of intense training and you have learned basics with flares and tricks at the end. Any moron could learn that.” To make matters worse, a friend at the time asked me if it was really that hard to learn how to dance. I naturally scoffed; the show has painted this as the most challenging thing to do ever!
As I scoffed, dance instructors laughed their asses off as the work just poured in. I guess you just can’t fault the power of what celebrities can influence. It is the simple case of monkey see, monkey do and even the most intelligent of people are not immune to media influence. The dancing industry became big booming business overnight; people flocked into the studios, all wanting to learn what Bec Cartwright performed the night before. So as the show gained its mass following, the dance industry reaped the rewards with money flowing into lessons every day.
But I think the show, and other shows like So You Think You Can Dance and the ....Got Talent franchise, has turned the actual experience of dancing savage. Younger generations are learning that dancing is purely competitive and about being the best technical and creative dancer possible. They are learning that if they don’t achieve this level of dancing ability then they do not amount to be a “Dancer”. Even the title premise of “So You Think You Can Dance?” suggests that those who thought they could move will be no doubt be proven wrong because their ability to dance will not be good enough. The sad part is that unlike Australian Idol, there is no high paying career or career projection from winning the show. So many dancers go through the turmoil of being made to feel inadequate and for what?
So what enjoyment is there of dancing when constantly being judged with every move being scrutinized and there being no reward in such criticism? If you played a sport I would understand; the potential to earn big money is very real. In Australia, there is not much for a dancer and the entertainment industry is tough and cut throat.
The backlash that the celebrities go through on Dancing With The Stars is even worse. And we seem to except it as celebrities get roasted daily on the front page of Newspapers and magazines so why not whilst they dance too. The saddest part of all is dancing is so beautiful and so pleasurable to be a part of. And teaching dance is such a rewarding profession. But, as the show approaches its eleventh series, the dancing industry no longer feels the warmth of enthusiasm from the public to dance. The influx of business has slowed and as the public grows tired of the show so do they of the industry. Now we suffer with the burden of expectation of excellence without the support of the public.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Fashion Faux Pas
Poor Kate, given flack for repeating her outfits, today. I have often wondered what it would be like to have to make sure you are not repeating outfits all the time. Think how much time would be spent weekly on trying on clothes. There is no surprise there are so many hit and misses by celebs now days in the fashion stakes. They have so many more opportunities to make mistakes. I guess they have the money for it.
Bad Photo Man
So I was on a very interesting photo shoot on the weekend. I say interesting like I speak with authority; it was my second modelling shoot ever. The first photographer I have ever worked with was lovely and complimentary and placid. She was respectful and humble unlike the douche bag I met this weekend. I am going to call him “Clive”. Clive was an older man compared to me; I was amongst a group of girls aged between thirteen and twenty four, me being one of the oldest. He was fat and unattractive, hence why he was on the other side of the camera. He interrupted everything the Art director had to say, even mentioning some of the AD’s gritty sex life to the entire group, embarrassing her to no end. He then began to call everyone a name based on their appearance, rattling the fragile egos of the girls by picking on their height and ethnicity. He got in my face at one stage, trying to adjust some of my make-up. He said how much he loved make-up, especially finding it on the pillow case in the morning after bringing home a beautiful young girl. I, at that moment, vomited a little bit into my mouth. After every photo he shot, he would turn to the crew and make a joke, wait for laughs, tell more of the joke which was highly offensive and inappropriate, which resulted in taking five minutes to perfect every shot. However, strangely, from what I could tell his photos were quite good. Yet he was unprofessional and disgusting; the two don’t make sense. Is this a reflection of the entire industry; the mind baffles me as to why I want so desperately to get into this industry when people like that are a part of it. Fingers crossed Clive is one of a kind. In fact I am sure he is.
I don't get it.
I love Beyonce so don’t get me wrong when I say this.
I find it overly insulting to the intelligence the reviews and praise of “Single Ladies”, the song Beyonce Knowles. If you have been living under a rock, or you are deaf, and do not know the infectious melody, all you need to know is that it’s all about girl power, getting back at your man for dumping you and asserting that women do not need men. As much as we know that artists sing songs that aren’t about them specifically, we all know that Beyonce is a very happily married woman to rapper Jay Z. The most brilliant performances are from those that make the audience believe that you aren’t you, that you are totally this whole other person. However the belief of performances are now questioned by the audience as we know everything about the celebrity; we no longer believe Beyonce is a happy single lady independent of men, we can no longer consider her as one of the independent women of the world so we cannot justify why she is singing to us like she is one. I cannot reconcile the meaning of song with who is singing; it is confusing that a married woman can preach independence of such a large scale. I felt even more confused when I discovered one of the foxy single women in her video clip is actually a man. It is the choreographer; apparently no other girl was good enough to do the dance so he dressed up and did the clip himself. To further add insult is the fact that one out of the four writers of this song is actually female, that being Beyonce. I would love to be a fly on the wall and listen to three guys and a married woman sit around and talk about what it is like to be a “Single Lady“ and then justifiably write a song about it. The song is fantastic and well composed, and I love dancing to it, however the process of its performance is hypocritical and confusing.
I find it overly insulting to the intelligence the reviews and praise of “Single Ladies”, the song Beyonce Knowles. If you have been living under a rock, or you are deaf, and do not know the infectious melody, all you need to know is that it’s all about girl power, getting back at your man for dumping you and asserting that women do not need men. As much as we know that artists sing songs that aren’t about them specifically, we all know that Beyonce is a very happily married woman to rapper Jay Z. The most brilliant performances are from those that make the audience believe that you aren’t you, that you are totally this whole other person. However the belief of performances are now questioned by the audience as we know everything about the celebrity; we no longer believe Beyonce is a happy single lady independent of men, we can no longer consider her as one of the independent women of the world so we cannot justify why she is singing to us like she is one. I cannot reconcile the meaning of song with who is singing; it is confusing that a married woman can preach independence of such a large scale. I felt even more confused when I discovered one of the foxy single women in her video clip is actually a man. It is the choreographer; apparently no other girl was good enough to do the dance so he dressed up and did the clip himself. To further add insult is the fact that one out of the four writers of this song is actually female, that being Beyonce. I would love to be a fly on the wall and listen to three guys and a married woman sit around and talk about what it is like to be a “Single Lady“ and then justifiably write a song about it. The song is fantastic and well composed, and I love dancing to it, however the process of its performance is hypocritical and confusing.
Groundhog Day
If you haven’t seen the movie then you cannot say you have lived. It was one of the must see, lazy Sunday afternoon quirk movies that people will quote at you in various social interactions and, if you don’t know the quote, then you got yourself a case of “social fail”. And nobody wants a social fail, nor have someone say to you “Social fail”; there is nothing more irritating than someone who insists on using “fail” at the end of everything. You fall over: walking fail. You fart in public: body fail. Someone has to teach me how it became so main stream in such a short amount of time and how we, even the educated ones, seem to have made it a part of our regular vocab. So not only is our generation getting lazy with our English, we are now turning to making up new phrases that have very little meaning and annoy everyone. Aren’t we great? At the end of the day I guess I can handle “...fail” than the abbreviations. You know the ones – for example “laugh out loud” is “LOL” in text and computer speak. I, being someone relatively normal, use those is my social media communication (Facebook, twitter, text messaging) as a means of saying something without taking too time up or space (text messages do cost money!). I cannot identify why a normal, functioning human being with the ability to speak and form sentences feels the need to spell the letters out, “L-O-L”, instead of actually laughing, or giggling, or simply saying how funny something is. You turn a person who is mildly intelligent into sounding like a complete moron. I hope to God this is not a sign of things to come.
Anyway, Groundhog Day. I feel like lately there is an overriding sense of nostalgia about everything I do. I feel I have the same conversations with the same people, the same empty looks in the mirror when checking my weight loss progress, the same outfits reoccurring day in and day out. If I could every day I would buy something new and wear it for just one day. Then, if I didn’t love it, I would throw it in the bin. And the process would start again the next day. I guess all I would ever need in life is pyjamas and something to wear to the shops and back. I hate repeating outfits. The worst case of Ground hog day came last Saturday; I went to the MCG and was watching Hawthorn versus Geelong. I am a Hawthorn witch, my favourite player (my “man” as the BF calls him) is Breust, the new youngster who comes out at mid third quarter to kick a few late goals to help bring the win in. I get very excited when they are playing and love it, like every other fan, when they get a win. However, I have the most intense hatred for Geelong. I despise them with such great intensity that I can get quite irrationally angry at Geelong supporters. Paul Chapman’s vow to never let Hawthorn beat them again, made after the 2008 Grand Final, amuses beyond no end; in Chapman’s defiant proclamation of revenge, he has shown he is quite scared of the Hawks, knowing that without this vow he is danger of losing to them again.
So with this in mind, I sat watching the game, in the right hand bay of the member’s lower deck, hoping that the Hawks will thump Geelong. That was third time, in the space of a year, that I had sat in the member’s lower deck, hoping the Hawks would thump Geelong. And, for the third time in the space of a year, Hawks put on a show early; they rose up to the challenge and then, in the final quarter, didn’t kick any goals and lost. I walked away with not only a headache but a great sense of fear; is this going to keep happening for the rest of my life? Am I going to keep watching the same thing keep happening over and over again? I hope, one day, I can at least be a full voting MCC member and be sitting out front of the Frank Grey Smith to watch them get beaten. That will be a change.
Anyway, Groundhog Day. I feel like lately there is an overriding sense of nostalgia about everything I do. I feel I have the same conversations with the same people, the same empty looks in the mirror when checking my weight loss progress, the same outfits reoccurring day in and day out. If I could every day I would buy something new and wear it for just one day. Then, if I didn’t love it, I would throw it in the bin. And the process would start again the next day. I guess all I would ever need in life is pyjamas and something to wear to the shops and back. I hate repeating outfits. The worst case of Ground hog day came last Saturday; I went to the MCG and was watching Hawthorn versus Geelong. I am a Hawthorn witch, my favourite player (my “man” as the BF calls him) is Breust, the new youngster who comes out at mid third quarter to kick a few late goals to help bring the win in. I get very excited when they are playing and love it, like every other fan, when they get a win. However, I have the most intense hatred for Geelong. I despise them with such great intensity that I can get quite irrationally angry at Geelong supporters. Paul Chapman’s vow to never let Hawthorn beat them again, made after the 2008 Grand Final, amuses beyond no end; in Chapman’s defiant proclamation of revenge, he has shown he is quite scared of the Hawks, knowing that without this vow he is danger of losing to them again.
So with this in mind, I sat watching the game, in the right hand bay of the member’s lower deck, hoping that the Hawks will thump Geelong. That was third time, in the space of a year, that I had sat in the member’s lower deck, hoping the Hawks would thump Geelong. And, for the third time in the space of a year, Hawks put on a show early; they rose up to the challenge and then, in the final quarter, didn’t kick any goals and lost. I walked away with not only a headache but a great sense of fear; is this going to keep happening for the rest of my life? Am I going to keep watching the same thing keep happening over and over again? I hope, one day, I can at least be a full voting MCC member and be sitting out front of the Frank Grey Smith to watch them get beaten. That will be a change.
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