I found this among my grandmother's collection of kitschy religious figurines while on a weekend beach trip with my family. I don't know whether it's the fact that she's stomping on a snake or the fact that her arms are spread in a requisite "come at me, bro" pose, but I have never loved a piece of religious iconography so much. 

Here's my current Beach Weekend with the Family playlist:

• The Wolves (Act I and II), Bon Iver
• Willie, Cat Power
• Sleep, The Dandy Warhols
• Violet Hill, Coldplay
• Lust for Life, Girls
• Like Humans Do, David Byrne

Parklife

Alright. I've slept off the bitter wine flu I contracted at Bowler Bar's official after party (sort of) and the unofficial after party my friends and I enjoyed at Dragonfly, and now I'm ready to talk. Let me preface all of this by saying that I solemnly swear never to leave buying miniature bottles of vodka (to shove in my bag, because I am cheap and don't like paying festival prices for watered down vodka and lemonade) to the last minute, ever again. I bottle shop-hopped across Brisbane's Western suburbs and managed to find a bottle shop that had one - one singular miniature bottle - in stock, and I drank that one bottle within 15 minutes of entering the festival. 

To be honest with you, I hit up Parklife on a whim of sorts. My friend S and I were driving to some ungodly rural town at an equally as ungodly hour (for a week of work-sponsored shenanigans), talking about Parklife's sweet biscuits line up this year (MSTRKRFT, Nero, Lykke Li, mainly), and decided that we'd go. Cut to me, desperately trying to book tickets on my iPhone before giving up and calling my mum to ask her if she'd pretty please do it for me. 

I don't have much to say about the day itself - not out of any animosity for the event itself, because I had an awesome day with some awesome people listening to some awesome music - but merely because I've tried writing a paragraph about how cool beans my experience was, and it keeps coming out as pretentious fuckwittery. Long story made short, it was fucking awesome and, pending next year's line up, I'll be back, albeit with miniature alcoholic beverages that I was wise enough to procure beforehand and twice the amount of hand sanitizer.

Personal highlights included, but sure as fuck weren't limited to, Wolfgang Gartner, Feed Me, and Nero. But I don't even want to talk about the sadness that Example's entire fucking set inflicted on my soul. I won't even get into details about the shitty sound, or the irritating douchebags and their Oompa Loompa girlfriends.

As a side note, the pick up line of choice at the official after party seemed to be "Do you work in the industry or are you just here because you're hot?". Nice.

xo, CK

The Good, Bad and Ugly of Brisbane Nightlife

Gone, friends, are the days of picking your drinking destination based on it's reasonable prices (Port Office Hotel), absurdly delectable bar staff (Fringe Bar) or incredibly wicked bathroom set-up (Cloudland, here's looking at you - you had to win points somehow...). Now, you'll be making your selection based almost entirely on the calibre of person you'll be associating yourself with by simply showing up and buying a drink or two... or four... or ten. (No judgement.)

Let's be honest here - this is Brisbane. Ultimately, you'll spend your night surrounded by opportunistic drug-users, barely-legal would-be fashionistas and men who just won't take no for an answer. Despite this, there remain ways that you can distinguish the have's from the have-not's in the Brisbane scene. (And trust me,  which caste of societal fuck-ups you choose to associate yourself with is about to become a whole lot more important.)

Notepads at the ready?

The Lad:

THE GOOD You'll spot him the minute you enter the bar, adorned in expensive, well-made casual attired that his mum and/or girlfriend picked out for him from the menswear selection at David Jone's. Every hair on his head will be in it's rightful place; that's the kind of excellent self-presentation that stems from a number of years at Grammar or BBC. You'll probably hear him, no matter how far you are from his person, chanting loudly with his old rowing or rugby team; however, when you observe his body, you'll be disappointed to note that he's not as muscular or tanned as you might hope. He hasn't partaken in sport since he graduated high school - hasn't really had time since he started interning for his father's best friend's firm...

Party tricks: boring you to death with tales of his adventures in Mykonos, even after you admit that you have never been; astounding you with his ability to drop a hundred dollars on Scotch in a single night and yet still refer to himself as a "poor uni student"; unprecedented skill at maintaining a shockingly poor vocabulary, despite his $40,000's worth of education at a prestigious private school.

Where you'll find him: Friday's Riverside

THE BAD Artlessly tousled hair, bad skin, and distastefully-placed body art... need I say more? This lad doesn't quite match up to the grooming standards of his counterparts. The one advantage he holds is his slightly more impressive muscle tone; clearly, he's seen the inside of a gym recently. While an excessive dedication to honing one's physique will never be frowned upon on this blog, a commitment to displaying said ill-gotten gains with a tight-fitting General Pants Co. t-shirt is. I don't want to cast aspersions on his character, but he's more likely than not an opportunistic user of recreational drugs. His experiences with drugs, however, are probably limited; he's just as happy "getting on the piss with the boiz".

Party tricks: "shuffling like a beast"; knowing all the lyrics to every DJ Khaled song ever made; locating and wooing the girl with the best tightness-of-dress to inebriation ratio; downing a sack of goon in two minutes or less without "bitching about it". 

Where you'll find him: Birdee Num Num's 

The Barely (And, In Some Cases, Not Quite) Legal Fashionista:

THE GOOD This lovely lady will cloak herself in the garments du jour (as related to her by trusty fashion mags like Cleo and Madison), picked straight from the racks of over-priced designer wear spruiked by Myer. She's about as cutting edge as a blunt pair of nail scissors, but her friends will leave her 1001 photo comments about just how well-dressed she is. Her personality is, more likely than not, bland, but that's easily off-set by her neat, white, even smile - if there's one thing the upper middle class values, it's good dental work. The years of torment she endured because of her braces have now been counterbalanced by her frequent, toothy appearances on Get A Nightlife. She'll travel in a pack of girls, all of whom are carbon copies of her, and secretly spend all night assessing them to determine whether or not she's thinner/smarter/more popular than they are.


Party tricks: naming every girl in her grade (and the grades bookending hers) at All Hallows'; managing to relate any conversational topic back to her 6.2 GPA; maintaining a sanctimonious visage throughout the duration of any song not sung by Katy Perry (and subsequently, frothing on the dance floor to every Katy Perry song that's spun). 

Where you'll find her: GPO

THE BAD "Rules of a Lady"? Fuck that. This girl makes and breaks rules with the same reckless abandon she uses to down Wet Pussies at the bar. She's convinced herself that no dress is slutty if she has the shape for it, that she really is an 8 and not a 12, and that "body concious" is a term that should apply only to the cut of her tribal print micro-mini. Unlike her 'classy' counterpart, who wouldn't be caught dead in anything sold in a shopping centre, this girl isn't afraid to take a chain store piece and make it her own. Unfortunately, this means that their "adorable" new Foxx Foe dress looks just as "adorable" on the next "bird". The terms 'loud' and 'brash' don't just apply to her sense of style; this girl would be right at home on an episode of Ladette to Lady. Rather than travel in packs, this girl will travel with her BFF (with whom she has a tumultuous relationship that hinges on the state of her relationship with her boyfriend), because if "shit goes down", her "girl" is "real" and will always "have her back".

Party tricks: a full and comprehensive knowledge of the rules to King's Cup; seemingly sonar ability to locate males who live in on-campus residences; the ability to down seven or more Pulse cans in an hour; her flexibility.

Where you'll find her: The Victory Hotel


Pick your poison.

xo, CK

Why I Spent Money I Don't Have on Candles (And Hate Children)

The past few weeks have been nothing short of blissful. I'm not the kind of person who likes to be constricted to schedules or to-do lists, which doesn't really cater to a life of academic pursuits. Thankfully, semesters are bookended by down time. While friends of mine have jettysoned themselves to far-off lands, citing a need to expand their "cultural understanding of the world we live in" - you know who you are, you pretentious dick - I stayed home. Primarily because my bank account doesn't yield to spur-of-the-moment international jaunts. Yesterday, I settled into the couch with my laptop fully-charged and at the ready, excited for an opportunity to turn on Game of Thrones, Face-stalk people I went to school with (a la the Grinch), and wait for the fibers of my sweatpants to fuse to the leather of the couch. 

Unfortunately, the fates had conspired against me.

I adore my neighbours. Really, I do. They're pleasant and well-mannered, but will never say more than "good morning" or "hi" when passing me in the foyer. (I am not the kind of person who possesses any interest in my neighbours, and I desire that they give a similar lack of fuck about mine.) Most importantly though, my neighbours appreciate the sanctity of silence, or, failing that, of quiet. However, the perfectly reasonable academics living directly across the hall have an adorable, chubby-cheeked, blonde-haired bundle of joy who is, I believe, teething.

The crying is unbearable. This child is capable of reaching pitches that no mortal being should reach; the kind of ungodly noise that can prompt a girl to leave the comfortable, warm sanctuary of her apartment, braving the bitter winter to find the nearest shopping centre (filled though it was with poorly-dressed twelve year olds enjoying their own freedoms).

That, my friends, is how I ended up spending money I don't have on scented candles after spending two hours in Dusk (shopping center spruiker of pretentiously-labelled scented candles). The funny thing about females is that we all seem to possess the ability to sniff at the same scented candle for 15 minutes on end without tiring or growing bored, during which time we form an attachment to said candle, and then trying to come betwixt woman and candle is a feat no mere man can accomplish.

I mean, on the plus side, my new lavender-scented "Relaxation" candle is sure to help me keep my calm and not go on an awe-inspiring carnage and bloodshed-filled rampage throughout my apartment block. And, let's face it, that "Concentration" candle is going to come in so handy next semester...

I just want to let you all know that if you read about someone in the Brisbane area punching a baby in the face tomorrow morning, it wasn't me. I have a lot of self control. Unless there are candles involved.

xo, CK