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General Stalkings - I'm Back

Decided to vamp up the old bloggo again. Expect greatness.

Soundstalker - Justin Bieber

Did you know that Justin Bieber's single "Baby" has taken over Elton John's "Candle in the Wind" as the highest certified single in music history?

In the words of my father "Why can't you kids be more like that Jizzing Beeble kid on the tv?" 

I think I'd still choose coherency. 

(courtesy of Huff Post

General Stalkings - This Morning.

This morning I had a strange self-realization.

I had just arrived at university ready for a day of education, knowledge and annoying protestors who preach Marxism three inches too close to my receptacle orifices.

I thought it funny how my university takes my two favourite things – books and intelligent people – and juxtaposes them with my two least favourite things – abrasive protestors and no smoking areas.

In order for me to fully function at my university, it is compulsory for me to a) buy a coffee b) buy a double shot of espresso and c) sit in the common grass for a cigarette while I look at the sky thinking about the homework I should have done when I was actually trying to perfect my Hank Moody talk in the mirror last night.

However, this morning this lovely little ritual that starts me off for the day was interrupted by nature. Yes, friends, it was how they say, “raining cats and dogs”. Or, if you’re me “shit pouring on my sunshiney day”.

I wasn’t too upset though. My cigarette could wait. Hell, my lungs feel more antiquated as the days roll by, they could use a break from my 9am influx of smog. There was still coffee.

So I went to the café, and this is where it all turned to shit.

As consequence of the weather, the protestors that normally spread out amongst the common had infiltrated the café space so that the normally 20 friendly souls all united for the morning caffeine rush, were now joined by 40 extra hairy armpitted, deodorant opposed ragamuffins all screaming blue murder about the fact they weren’t getting paid enough at their fake jobs in the whales wombs of which they had emerged this morning.  They made me want to take heaps of drugs and shit my pants in front of them. 

Now THAT’S confronting.

By logical extension, they had all chosen to buy extra hot soy decaf flat whites in latte glasses – so the baristas were sweating milky froth droplets under the pressure. 

I felt my heart clench. What was I going to do? Should I sacrifice this sacred half of my morning ritual? Should I come to class without the caffeinated quips I could reply after my triple shot? Why did this person next to me smell like soy cheese?

It was all too much, I was over stimulated – upset.

I fled from the café to the rainy common, hoping for some fresh air and a clear head to tackle my morning ritual.

I looked at the rain pelting the overnight scum off the blades of grass, nurturing the worms six feet under. I then looked back to the café, the barista throwing back beverages to nurture the worms who should be six feet under. It could have seemed romantic if I wasn’t at the peak of devastation following these horrible occurrences. Why had the holy forces forsaken me this morning? What the fuck was up?

I flirted with the idea of leaving university. I would go home and study there. I could get a coffee and a cigarette and sit in my yard doing my work – I’d have to catch up, but it would be worth the morning satisfaction.

But for some reason I stormed back into the café, blocked my nose and ordered my coffee. It didn’t take nearly as long as I thought and in the time it took to wait and walk outside, the pelting rain had settled to a fine shower – light enough for a cigarette break.

I sat down on the saturated grass, lit my cigarette and sipped my coffee. Deep, resonating drags into my lungs and a heated oesophagus. 

This is where the realization hit me. Why should the actions of others and unchangeable forces of nature stop me from doing exactly what I wanted to do in the morning? Why was I about to let something as ridiculous as a long line and a morning shower get the better of me? I had time – yet I almost let frustration win. But yet I went ahead and did it regardless, because I knew I would feel better in the end. I had to stop bitching about these trials and dilemmas I knew I was always going to face – if I was ever going to get any satisfaction.

The same applies to any kind of goal in your life. If you strive through any adversity to get what you want, whether it be as simple as waiting in line a few minutes longer in the grocery line, asking a cute boy for a lighter even if he’s next to a pretty girl, or applying for a job that you think you don’t deserve. It’s all the same.

If you do what you want, when you want, the plebs will disappear, the rain will soften, and you will get your coffee and your cigarette.

Artstalker - Charmaine Olivia

I am an obsessive tumblr user. 

If you too have fallen victim to the navy hallows of perpetual reload and have suddenly found yourself staring at pictures tagged "palm tree" at 3am while you're swivelling on your desk chair cemented to your snuggie, consequence of a Push Pop you spilt on your lap seventy-five minutes ago. You scream "I want to go to the beach!" to the picture of a Cara Delevigne lookalike with bubblegum pink rollerskates and a septum piercing but she can't hear you, she won't take you - at least not until you clean yourself the fuck up you under nourished son of a bitch.

Even if you're not that extreme and you simply use it to pass the hours between cupcake run and "file this file that" at work, or you use it to beat off, you can't deny that it is way more gratifying seeing pictures of things you can't access, things you want to be a part of - rather than the localisation that Instagram implies. 

Now I know it's filled with a lot of crap - i.e. wanton wannabe's and mini Magdalene's who use it as a public forum to sharp shoot their box gap to stardom through the click of 10,000 little re-blogs (and yes it's THAT easy), but if you choose your tags and your followers wisely and don't get caught up in the tumblrlogic, then it's a great virtual shoot up of inspiration for your next creative project. All the people united on the tumblrverse seem to know what puts the "hip" in "hipster" and the "in" in "indie" and the "fuck" in "fuck yeah I love what they've done with their Derwent's they got from Nan last Christmas!" I'm pretty sure tumblr subconsciously manipulates my wardrobe choice after the the amount of times I have tagged "Karlie Kloss clothes" only to emerge covered in sequins and have stencilled "Gucci" to my wrist. 

Now on one of my Push Pop virtual stalking parades - that seem to frequent me on a Tuesday night, I came across an extremely talented artist by the name of Charmaine Olivia. Even though her name reminds me of a Pokemon hybrid, she's one of the artists I have consistently followed on tumblr because her work is simply stunning.

She's self taught, lives in San Fran and has had clients like Urban Outfitters, Lady Gaga, Hallmark, Volcom Stone, Element, Nylon Magazine, & Inked Girls Magazine all after her whimsical painting style. She's one of those exceptionally beautiful women that makes their money documenting other exceptionally beautiful women, know what you are and reproduce it - flawless strategy. 

Links and license to stalk her are below.

Baristalker - Little Big Sugar Salt

When breakfast is fucked, my day is fucked.

This is because breakfast is my most favourite time of the day - and it doesn't take a lot for people to fuck with it for me. Being 21, breakfast is often a thing that is overlooked in favour of "sinking bulk piss" and "not eating", but I for one have never ever sacrificed my weekly cafe visits for a goon sack. But with this breaksession, comes an overwhelming sense of expectation when I visit a new place. The menu, the atmosphere, the company - all have to be on tee. I visit so many places in every suburb and in Melbourne you are rarely disappointed. If I am disappointed, I need good, stable company that can calm this bucking horse that is my ego and prevent me from not monkey screaming down the baristas throat to make my coffee the temperature of coffee, not a milkshake. It is called coffee. Not milkshake. Unless you have toes for fingers and an IQ of room temperature, this should be a given. And if you do have the unfortunate limb disfunction and lack of neurons - then you my friend, should not be making my coffee, you should be learning to spell N-E-S-C-A-F-E in after school care and sucking your mother's teat. 

As you can see, when my breakfast is fucked, then the rest of my day is fucked. Normally I'm quite good at letting things slide after a moment's unhappiness.

I could be walking along the road on a muddy day and a passing car splashes gutter scum directly into my eyeball holes, my mouth holes, my ear holes and potentially my nether regions (if on a hot Summer's day and the need for underwear didn't arise) and momentarily gasp and shout a, "sexy", word in their direction, but ultimately I will shake the poo flavoured roadside crust from my dangling locks, wipe the hobo's sputum from my corneas and be on my merry little way - forgetting everything. 

Perhaps my utter distaste for an average breakfast experience stems from my hospitality experience. Having worked in cafes and restaurants for over seven years, perhaps I have spent far too much time making average peoples' experiences the happiest of all time? Am I that keen on Urban Spoon reviews?  Do I care if eggaholic415 or mmmuesliishealthy_bakedbeanz2 trolls me on a Broadsheet forum feed? 

Fuck. No. 

I just want everyone to enjoy something I enjoy, just as much as I do. I couldn't give a flying fuck about attending your football game, netball game, wedding or birthday party - but I will be the one you remember at your Sunday bruncheon. You should grant me the same satisfaction by making mine lovely too. Otherwise I will put mud on your wedding dress. THERE! I SAID IT.

Now, after all of this ranting and raving, I only have good news to report.

I went to one of the best places I've been to in the last couple of months, and it was certainly the best coffee I have ever had in Melbourne.

Enter - Little Big Sugar Salt. A quaint and quirky little nook on Victoria Street that's "right between the pho and the heroin" in Richmond's finest Asian drug vending district. It's not somewhere that you would normally expect a hip-to-be-square little cafe, but every revolution has to be somewhere, and I feel that this hotspot will pave the way for future businesses in this somewhat "derelict" part of Richmond. 

Me and one of my best breakfast partners came here early one morning expecting great things. My breakfast buddy was still pissed from the night before and had a horrible case of the drunk munchies. While I was on the opposite end of the spectrum that was starting a health kick for the fourth time this week that would more than likely end with me curled in the foetal position on my couch nursing a 2L tub of choc mint ice cream about to shit my pants from a lactose overdose. Denial is an ugly thing kids.

We sat down on a sort of Oriental/Modern French decor - think lots of wooden slats, duck egg blues and minimalistic table ware. It's an extremely inviting space. Nooks, crannies - it's like dining in an eccentric Parisian's apartment on the 8th arrondissement. I am one that usually gets excited my well decorated bathrooms as well. Peeling paint, antique looking mirrors and big high ceilings. So sold. So sold.

There's some exciting reading material loitering in the wooden slats as well. While you wait for your heavenly coffee you can read "Useless Japanese Inventions" or "How to Read Palms".

After downing what was the most delicious coffee I have honestly ever had. I can't figure out what they're roasting but it tastes like Daenerys Targaryen got one of her baby dragons to do it - whilst she bestowed her best wishes upon it. Flamingly delicious.

With only 8 items on the menu and each lovingly categorised (2 big, 2 little, 2 sugar, 2 salt - cute, I know!) I chose the granola for girlfriends (oh my god I'm so healthy getting sugar glazed oven baked carbohydrate explosion!) and my mate chose the hashcakes. 

What ensued was beyond expectation, beyond notation, beyond elation, beyond masturbation. 

The granola was coconutty and full of these unreal, plump little strawberries. If ever you have looked at the muesli getter on a breakfast date being like "oh, look at that sad sack with her lonely bowl of oats and cow period while I mouth orgasm on hollandaise and mega hot scramblies that are like clouds" then you are going to eat your words my FRIEND.

The hashcakes were just as exciting - albeit...alternative. A nest of "McDonald's-esque" hash brown on a salad of pomegranate, apple, parsley and a yoghurty dressing - this bad boy slipped down the throat like pineapple flavoured...juice. Mmmmymmumumum.

So, after eating our fill and mindlessly chatting to the happy staff I can say that this is one breakfast that was certainly not ruined. Five stars yo.

Little Big Sugar Salt

Corner Victoria & Lithgow Streets 
(03) 9427 8818
Mon to Fri 6:30 am - 3:00 pm
Sat to Sun 8:00 am - 3:00 pm

Soundstalker - Salad Days

I was rolling up my sleeves to delve into the black hole that is "the ice bucket" at work to fetch hither a bottle cap I had dropped in there, when my colleague started up at me, "That's why you can't open your eyes! You went to the Evelyn last night! You drunk bitch! Learn to wash yourself!" 

Now, I have a bone to pick with said "colleague" (pfft colleague, more like go-fuck-yourself-eague) Am I alone in the population of approximately 6 billion party-goers that doesn't immediately think to scrub their forearms after a night out to remove the club stamp? I believe scrubbing my forearms in a normal shower scenario is right down on the priority list near "pressing my butt cheeks against the shower screen to make a love-heart" and "eating the soap that was used to scrub said butt cheeks". After clubbing, I feel it's even further down the hangover priority list, next to "eating an organically sourced vegan meal at a fine dining restaurant" and "licking the gap between the oven and the wall". 

Yet here I was, chastised for my filthy state of being, when all I had was the faint outline of an Evelyn stamp. I'd even showered! Which was an effort for me, normally the thought of hot water on a hangover makes my vagina shiver and my mouth dry up in protest. Gnarly yo. 

But then I looked at it. It looked back at me. And I thought to myself..."This is a symbol of youth, of pleasure, of good old fashioned enjoyment." And I looked at my colleague and I held my forearm high in the air and said "YOLO my dick suuhhn!"

I loveeeee to use all of my words hey.

Enough of this here ranting, it's time to tell you what the fuck I was actually DOING at the Evelyn. And that was seeing a gig. A darn good gig at that!

Me and my boyfriend were sitting outside the Evelyn bumming cigarettes and sipping fine wines and waiting for my friend Josh's band to come onstage. I've been friends with Josh for a while now (he is one of three friends I have at uni as I am an anti-social fuckwit that is better than you) and he's always asking me to come to the gigs and I never come to the gigs (because like I said, I'm an anti-social fuckwit) But I live about yelling distance from the Evelyn so when he asked me to come come come I thought, hey! What the heck! Tally ho! Bits and bobs!

So...after a beverage or seven, we decided to hoike it on inside to score a good seat and be front and centre for the band. Being in a somewhat cynical mood, I was ready to judge the crap out of them. Beat them to a raging pulp with judgement. Throw them with my judgement in a lions cage and rub them in entrails. That sort of shit.

But my scathing words of harsh reality will have to be reserved for another band, another day - because friends, Josh's band...were simply...fucking great.

Who are they? What are they? What is my blood type?

The name of Josh's band is Salad Days. This is them being in a band.


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Although that may have been just as fun.

Despite their crappy name, this band is doing sensational things in the land of all things musical. With the charm of a good old fashioned indie band (cute, shaggy, dark haired boys arranged in a triangle shape shaking their skinny jeaned asses and flailing their flannies about) teamed with the uncanny ability to turn old songs of the 90's (think Nirvana and Chilli Peppers) into completely new songs by infusing them with their own quirky beats - The Days churn out a bunch of radio friendly beats and a really wholesome "hire them for your beach party" kinda vibe. 

What I really like about the band though was the fact that every song sounded completely different from the other. I hate writing music reviews and having to pick out specific songs that I really liked - so often the songs all blur into each other because you've either a) had too many froths b) had too many froths or c) are in the bathroom and you miss all the songs you like. But the arrangement of the vocals in each song are really easy to differentiate from song to song, and the voice ever changing with the singers' amazing vocal range. 

The only downer with seeing this band was probably the fact that the guitarist stayed in the bottom of the guitars neck for about 95% of the songs, making the range somewhat limited in the guitar sound. But in saying that, I can understand that that's what they're probably trying to make the most memorable part of their sound - so a hater can't hate when an oyster's an oyster yo. 

It was a shame that the boys aren't particularly well known, as they played to an audience of about fifteen - but that's what the publicity's for guys! 

Go and see them fuck around on stage. They're contagiously good. 

But when you go and see them at da club, make sure you scrub your forearms the next morning. Or be scorned. Forever and ever and ever and ever.

Catch them on Facey for more info on their next gig.

Tusk/Back Bar - Baristalker

I find it hard to garner the motivation to spend much time on Chapel Street. As Melbourne's self appointed mecca for tourists wanting that "oh sah Melbourne" shopping injection - I've always been a little turned off for spending more time there than I have to. And the street is really long. It for like four suburbs long. Imagine trawling along that street with your shopping bag lagging behind ol' mate Kakiwa Goeisowka whose donning a fanny pack that can fit his Yan Yan's, his tourist guide to Melbourne, and his ticket stub from the Moomba festival inside. You're trying to doge him, walk two paces faster to get ahead, but there's Voula, Toula and Gianni wanking on about the lack of sequins in the SS13 collection from Ed Hardy. You dodge, you weave, you perspire from the reflection on the concrete and shiny shiny shopping windows, but you're doomed behind tacky conversations and bucket hats for eternity. 

Call me a cynic, but I am completely uninterested in that. I was all too happy being a conceded and self righteous mother fucker (residing in Fitzroy I have the lovely suburb wide preconception that I'm apart of "Fitzroyalty") but due to the terrifying realisation that I couldn't find a job in my area (unless I resolved to work on Lygon Street where you are expected to work for a solemn $12 per hour punching out lattes and short macs while a 57 year old Italian named Don Luigi stares at your rack whilst grabbing your ass and asking for a Campari and Orange.) 

I decided that I had to skip suburbs and venture into the big wide world of cafes in Melbourne. So, after job searching the wide wide foray that is Melbourne, cynical me ironically landed a job in the fabled Chapel Street - much to my initial disdain. For the first couple of days I'd just put my head down, my sunglasses on, and fang it to the tram stop - but one day the sandwich I'd lovingly prepared for my 12pm fix had become soggified by too fresh tomato (damned crisper not preparing my perishables for the perishable life outside its frosty hug) I was forced to venture for something to ease my gurglin' belly sounds along Chapel Street. 

 Cue astonishment, wonderment, amazement, happiness, giggles, laughter, eyeballin' froth sweltering joyous exclamations of newfound religious followings - I was home. Suddenly I'd been acquainted with THE OTHER END of Chapel (the Windsor end) and was surrounded by a myriad of cool quirky bars, gorgeous looking restaurants, funky op shops and the like. Minus the pretentious hipster vibe that is so often present in that kind of a place. Absorbed by my new found portal of cooldom I promised myself that I'd explore this Narnia, this Indian in the Cupboard, once I'd eaten through at least half a cows ass.

I walked into the trendiest, smoker friendly and lovingly lit place in my vicinity - Tusk. With Moroccan infused decor - think ornate couches, gilded mirrors - all in the colours of the most "aww' inducing sunset. It's cozy, it's warm - and it's worn in! - a feature overlooked in so many bars trying to be "cool" and "hip" and "so now". The staff were that perfect combination of attentive and engaging and were totally okay with the people on the next table pronouncing pinot gris - peenot grease. I'd probably lose it if I was someone who was saying pee not grease. Who pisses grease? That's some Brothers Grimm shit right there. 

I ordered a tasting plate that included haloumi, chorizo, roasted zuchinni, peppers, eggplant, olives, ciabatta with herbs, beetroot-hummus-onion dip and a big fuck off glass of sav. It was fucking miraculous. When it started to get cold, the staff offered blankets and turned up the heating - so it felt as though I was that perfect temperature when you just wake up and you're in your doona. Food induced bliss. Contented, full of food, and inspired to explore the street further. Put Tusk on your list. 

Corner Chapel and Green Street Windsor
(03) 9529 7899 Mon to Wed 7:00 am - 1:00 am 
Thu to Sat 7:00 am - 3:00 am 
Sun 7:00 am - 1:00 am

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