Lecture substantiates hate for Aussie Idol

Now I don't have anything against music. Nor do I look down upon young people trying to transform their talent into a money filled lifestyle. Hell, if there was a show called "So You Think You Can Recite All The Words To The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy" I would be right there in front of the Burswood Dome at 4 in the morning, fully made up and dressed as an Elf from the Woodland Realm, ready to audition and praying to make it big. Yet Australian Idol makes me want to run way, become Amish and live out my days tending to wheat in Pennsylvania and wearing a cotton pinafore, simply to avoid ever having to watch this show. Why? Because it drains creativity from the souls of the heedless. They go in there to audition and, amongst all the people in weird costumes (some probably mistaking it for the auditions of my LOTR show) their singing reminiscent of either a jet plane taking off or the monotone strangulation of George W choking on a pretzel, they stand out because they can actually sing. Some quite well in fact. Some even play musical instruments which suggest they may have more then just a passing interest in music. You think to yourself maybe this year will be different? These people really seem like intelligent, talented individuals surely capable of producing music that doesn't fade into the background along with The Pussycat Dolls and all those folks who think putting a drum beat to an old song constitutes song writing. But alas, as the weeks continue and they are forced to sing other people's songs, dance around the stage in sometimes hideous and embarrassing outfits, their individual creative talents begin to trickle out of them. Firstly it's indistinguishable, but becomes blatantly obvious when the winner finally produces an album, so far removed from who they used to be but reflecting only who the show has made them. Which is whatever the record company thinks will market well to an audience made up mostly of teenage girls.

Now, today as I sat in a darkened lecture theatre, it's dim lighting and slight stuffy warmness far more conducive to sleep then learning, my hatred for Aussie Idol was justified. Last semester, when tackling a particularly tricky essay I was told by a tutor that you can really argue what ever point you desire as long as you can find someone credible to agree with you and reference them. So just like the moment when you finally come across an obscure book on the bottom shelf of the mustiest corner of the library, written completely in German, but once translated contains the gem of wisdom that supports your argument, which before that was completely unsubstantiated and your argument consisted of "because I think so", my lecturer provided me with the research material I needed to geekify my Aussie Idol argument. No longer did I have to just yell "but I don't like it" louder than those yelling "but I do like it". I had proof. I had someone who agreed with me. I had street cred. Or lounge room debate cred. Whatever you like to call it. He was talking about Post Modernism and in particular the notion of pastiche - the stealing, copying, borrowing of artistic works without any regard to it's meaning or cultural significance. The example was given of Aussie Idol where we watch them sing other people's songs, often without knowing or caring what it's about. Even the judges will say that they aren't engaging with the song. They are not creating. They are not trying to put across a message. They are simply imitating and we just don't care. Well I do, and I am sure others do as well. But now I have the proof. I knew I went to uni for a reason. To win arguments.

Aussie Idol has ruined my life in other ways too. I used to love Michael Jackson's "Can You Feel It", often alarming other drivers with my frantic car dancing, getting so worked up that I am sure other motorists thought I was perhaps having some kind of seizure and just in case, they changed lanes to avoid me. Along with strange looks, this song brought me joy. It's upbeat and makes you want to dance. I guess that's why Aussie Idol decided to use it on their advert. Either that or they have a secret and unfounded hate for me and decided to do it purely out of spite and are currently sitting behind their big mahogany desks, laughing their little asses of at my misery.

You decide.

We're Not Going To Make It

I live a 2 minute drive from uni. And though you would think that this may in fact encourage me to walk the mere 1.4 kilometers every day, my laziness prevails and I continue to pollute the environment by driving my car whilst putting all my vegetarian, recycling, 4-minute showing taking efforts to shame. I should be penitent but that's what 2 solid months of Star Trek watching will do to one's fitness levels. While I was training to climb to Mt Everest base camp, a fellow loon (aka those who wake up at 6 in the morning, put on a pair of hiking boots, fill a backpack full of water bottles and various other heavy stuff to then proceed to Jacob's ladder in Kings Park and scamper up and down a concrete stair case until it's time to go to work) told me that you can lose your fitness in a measly two weeks. It took me almost a year of training to get fit for Everest and after I conquering that mountain all it took for my newly found fitness to fail me was a couple of weeks eating Nepalese food with my hands, spending most of my time in a taxi/rickshaw/any mode of transport not involving my own personal movement and eating more Nepalese food with my hands. In fact I think that was the only time I moved. Hand from plate to mouth. All the while I was thinking that I would return to Perth a wonder woman and everyone would want to date me as I ran past them, my high altitude-trained lungs working at only half steam propelling me forward like a super hero. When I arrived home I found myself puffed as I struggled to pull my suitcase, visions of Super hero-dom vanishing swiftly like of those plates of food I had consumed only days before. I have never regained that fitness, there's nothing quite like the tallest mountain on earth to get you motivated and funnily enough running the city to surf really didn't cut it for me, so I remain teetering between exceptional laziness and a more moderate laziness. And getting back to the point, Star Trek marathons, involving superfluous snacks, encourage the former kind. Hence the driving.

As it takes me only minutes to drive to uni I often go home in the breaks between classes to make myself a sandwich that costs me only $1.40, instead of spending $7.95 for a funny tasting salad, a big tray of chips, or the world's most expensive apple. I have to save money to fund my eBay habit somehow. And today was one of those days in which I had drove to and from uni a couple of times. After my last class, iPod in, and with a swagger in my walk I strolled in the direction of the car park. Singing along to Marilyn Manson, wondering if it would be possible, like in the movies, to have a soundtrack to my day to day happenings. Cursing the hills as my calf muscles ached reminding me of the cringe you feel as a opera singer hits that high note. Uncomfortable and wondering if an injury will ensue. As I closed in on the car park I realised that I had no idea where I had parked. I had parked in two different areas that day and my surroundings were looking vague and unhelpful. Was it the first or second time that I parked illegally on the median strip? A red Saab caught my eye and I thought maybe I had parked next to it, subconsciously remembering it to avoid such a calamity. Alas, no. There was no car graced with an Apple sticker in sight. I began to worry that I would be forever traipsing the university car park, begging for extensions from passing tutors trying to get to their own cars, because I had never made it home and I didn't have all my books on me. Each row of cars looking identical to the next, I began to jog. Marilyn Manson began to fade in my ears and the strains of a new song began to emerge. I was hoping for something inspiring like "Your Car Is Just Round That Next Corner", you know, that country song by Ima Fullo Shit instead I got "We're Not Going To Make It" by the President's of the USA. My only response at this time was to sit down were I stood and refuse to move, oddly childish of me, but somehow cathartic. I felt my strength returning and as I lifted my head, and leaned on the nearest car for support I realised that that car was mine. I wiped away a tear, gave the tyre a small kick and went home.

The moral of the story....be childish. It works.