Open letter to Eddie Vedder & Pearl Jam

Dear Eddie,

For longer than I care to remember, every time I hear Pearl Jam are back in the studio my heart does a little leap of excitement. Usually I manage to hold on to that excitement until some random seconds into the long awaited song when my heart breaks and I go into mourning again.

During that blissful time I remember sitting slack jawed in my room for a whole afternoon listening to Ten so many years ago. Letting your moody, broody voice that blew me away in the Temple of the Dog album create ripples in my post-teenage angst.

And so it is that I ask, for the billionth time since you decided you wanted to become Neil Young’s doppelganger, what’s up with your new single? Thankfully it doesn’t sound like I need to be barefoot with a tambourine in a picket line to enjoy it, but something’s off. Have you been hanging out with Rob Thomas? Are you short on money and therefore needed to write something that is so instantly radio friendly that I’m over it before it gets to the predictable bridge? Did you really need to use Sha-la-la

Maybe you’ve become like U2, happy and settled in life and lacking in the emotional, existential and often drug-fuelled tension that fuels good music. Maybe you’ve grown up and I haven’t. Maybe it’s not you, it’s me…

Maybe I’ll just go listen to your early stuff, piece my heart together again, wait for the new album and avoid commercial radio for a while. I can feel my hope lifting again. Please don’t let me down.

Best,
PJ

Jumping for joy

Things are getting seriously weird in the wardrobe of my mind. You see, I have a physical wardrobe and a mental one. My physical wardrobe is one of a corporate girl who can get away without wearing suits and can explore some trends without getting fired. My mental wardrobe is that of a mid-twenties lunatic with an equal parts penchant for ghetto, hobo, rock chic, goth, preppy and Chanel.

Sometimes, after careful deliberation and research, items will make it from my mental to my physical wardrobe. Like my harem pants; it took me months to buy a pair that I could wear to work yet still feel like I was doing something fashion forward (although by the time I got them they were just on the cusp of mainstream so they didn’t end up being as edgy as my mind imagined them.)

An item that I feel is just about to burst forth into reality is a jumpsuit. I know it sounds terribly 1980s but there’s something very appealing to me about a single texture top to bottom. The margin for error is enormous: if it’s too long in the crotch you get a baggy butt, too short and you’re in camel toe trouble. Plus you run the risk of looking like you’re wearing pyjamas. Then there’s the inconvenience of having to practically strip naked to go to the toilet.

The odds are certainly stacked against it but still it keeps coming to the fore of my mental wardrobe. As I write this I am going through my jewellery and looking through my jackets working out what I’d wear with the jumpsuit. It’s looking promising. My friend Lisa would certainly not agree.

Wall art: Time to get my boots on

As the owner of a shiny new house with new plaster and new paint on the walls, I have been putting off drilling holes and hanging up my artwork.

I’ve been contemplating where to start for a few weeks now but all efforts have amounted to more procrastination. I think it’s mostly because, with the exception of three or four pieces, my wall art is mostly transitionary – which is really another way to say that I keep changing my mind about what to display in my frames.

First up this weekend definitely has to be the painting I bought a few years ago. I mean, it’s a painting, it’s by an actual artist, it cost a lot of money and I love it to bits.

Next will be the framing of two new images that I have finally decided will go up on the wall. They’re both photographs, my favourite medium, and I find them very intriguing. The photo of the cymbal reminds me of a circus tent and the one of the boots causes me to daydream about who the person is and what they’re doing.

I’ve already got a couple of 7-foot decals of red poppies up on one wall but until this weekend I haven’t been game to bring out the drill and really commit.

But I will.

I hope.

We’ll see…

Trenery: We've been down this Country Road before

Country Road today unveiled a new brand, to be sold in new stores, targeted at an over 40 clientele. Intrigued by the premise of a new feature in the chain store market, I clocked through the image gallery and came out highly confused and with more questions than answers.

How is this different from what Country Road do now? Why did they use models that are barely 30, let alone 40? Why are there so many shorts in their range when (a) it's winter right now and (b) very few people over 40 can pull off shorts? What's with the white pants and the tie waists? Is this their version of retirement chic? Is this their way of cutting garments to cater for larger sizes (they'll apparently stock up to size 18)?

I have to admit that I've enjoyed Country Road's resurgence over the last few years; with the exception of a couple of seasons in 2007-08, they're always guaranteed to have a little something for me when I visit. At first it made me feel old but now I realise they give good, affordable silk so I'm sold.

I'm sure Trenery will end up having some nice pieces and I may have already added a couple of pieces from their launch collection to my mind's wardrobe but I'm afraid their obvious marketing as an over 40 range is going to keep me away for a while. Jus as I sometimes don't look at the size of a garment because I want to focus on the fit, I don't need a store reminding me the I'm getting old - that's just no fun now is it?

Photo credit: The Age

A tribute to Tributes

Maybe it’s because I have freakishly fat calf muscles that make wearing knee high boots nigh on impossible, or maybe it’s because I’m going through a very obvious cartoonish phase with my outfits, but I am in deep, sexy love with the YSL Tribute booties.

They look unwearable; are exaggerated to the point of ridicule; would possibly endanger my ankles, yet endear me to my chiropractor; would look completely out of place in my corporate office. All this I know – yet they still call my name.

Of course, like any trend, once you’ve seen it a million times on the likes of Lindsay Lohan, Kylie Minogue (who wore them to walk her enormous dog…on cobblestones, natch) and Rihanna, you know it’s been whored beyond belief, even before the copies start landing at your nearest Shoo Biz outlet.

Determined to not join the long list of starlets, lanky teenagers on wobbly heels, and the woman in my office building who inexplicably wears hers with a very bland, brown skirt suit, I went out this weekend and purchased a pair of booties that I find just as fabulous. The grey suede means every wear needs planning and an assessment of the meteorological forecast, but they make me feel like Wonder Woman, which is what I realised attracted me to the Tributes in the first place.

Mission accomplished.

It's an insightful and irritating news day today

Here's what a person can learn by reading the various news outlets today:

>> Australians are getting fatter and deluded in the process;
>> People are now losing their jobs at the hands (beaks?) of parrots;
>> Kate Winslet has found a way to be more annoying than she already is;
>> If you can't get a seat on a train, there will be another service soon, you don't have to ride the actual carriage;
>> We're in for more excruciatingly long Hobbit tales that people no longer care about;
>> People are freaking out at TomKat's rumoured arrival Down Under; and
>> We're dismissing drugs but naming cutting (because that's better...) as Angelina Jolie's latest affliction.

Happy reading.

Photo credit: The Daily Telegraph

A real life douchebag

I try to generally keep things light and airy here – nothing too serious or depressing – but after all, I called this blog Cute When Frustrated, not Happy-Go-Lucky, so it does give me some latitude towards the bitchy end of the scale.

So here goes. It occurred to me today that I actually know a real life douchebag.

One of my favourite online ‘hitching’ posts – Gawker – is a long time identifier of this modern phenomenon so I feel somewhat qualified in knowing a douchebag from your regular, run-of-the-mill dumbass. Having never known one directly, it took me a while to appropriately classify the douche and that’s because doucheness can sometimes be mistaken for arrogance, dorkiness, egoism or just plain stupidity.

I will offer one concession to my douchbag and that is that they are not as bad as these guys, who are unmistakeably the douchiest douches in the world – there’s hope yet douchebag.

Photo credit: Photo of the douchebag poster boy taken from Wikipedia.com

Great online discoveries: The Sartorialist

Um, excuse me, how is it that I didn't discover The Sartorialist until this week?

I spend more money that I care to count on fashion magazines, more time than I care to tally on fashion websites, and more brain power than I care to admit planning what to buy and how to wear it.

Realistically, I am nowhere near the level of fashionista that graces the lens of The Sartorialist and am so obviously completely behind the curve on this that I may as well still be wearing Hypercolour 'Choose Life' t-shirts and blow drying my hair like George Michael's before I learnt what gay really meant. (As an aside, I picked up a t-shirt in my desired colour of grey-blue at American Apparel last week and nearly gagged in shock upon discovering it was hypercolour...in 2009!)

Anyway, this is a seriously good blog - like people watching without having to venture out among the unwashed, badly dressed masses in search of a shiny beacon of fashion inspiration. This guy is out there sifting through that for us and delivering it so wonderfully composed right to our computer. Genius.

Fantasy football: Not that hard?

For some stupid reason, last week I decided to join a fantasy football league called Supercoach. I did it to prove a point because my man is involved with two fantasy leagues and spends the better part of his leisure time researching players, reading injury lists, balancing the salary cap and bitching on Sunday night about his underperforming players.

The point I wanted to prove was that it's not that hard. After all, the premise is fairly straightforward: you get a budget, buy your players and trade them if they get injured or start performing really badly on a regular basis.

My objective was to get a team together with the least amount of research so I blew my fantasy $10 million in 30 minutes. As the weekend approached, I resisted the repeated calls to re-evaluate my players, their positions and the fact that my fantasy team was heavily laden with players from the real life team I follow.

My real life team played like crap and lost. Consequently, my score was average. On the other hand, for some freakish reason (that I attribute solely to the fact that I'd grandstanded about how easy this fantasy league caper is) my man's team did freakishly well for a change.

So, although I'm not completely convinced, it's starting to seem to be that fantasy football may indeed by 'that' hard as I'm now stuck having to maintain my participation in something that needs more of my attention than I am willing to give.

Silversun Pickups: Smashing Pumpkins much?

In my many years of attending rock concerts I have only walked out of two.

The first was an Alice In Chains gig during their tour to promote Dirt. I had excitedly purchased tickets to both of their shows yet walked out half way through their first song because Layne Staley (rest in peace) was so off his face on drugs he could hardly perform. I didn't return the next night, $150 wasted.

The second time was at the end of a Smashing Pumpkins show during their Mellon Collie tour, about 45 minutes into an instrumental jam session. Every time they transitioned from guitar solo to yet another drum solo the audience kept expecting them to wrap it up, thank us for our support and leave the stage. They didn't. They played on. And on. It was late, I was tired and I remember vaguely hearing Billy say, "Thank you, good night", just as I opened my car door.

The reason I'm bringing this up is because I am currently listening to a lot of the Silversun Pickups. No one (in their right mind) that lived through the 90s listening to the Smashing Pumpkins can deny the influences.

I know the band routinely do and prefer comparisons with Velvet Underground and Sonic Youth, but I think it's just deflection because the similarities are just too obvious. The soaring, layered guitars; the androgynous-sounding lead singer with the fragile voice that turns to a growl in a single key change; the chick on bass; the broken love lyrics. I could go on but come on people, it's like 1991 and I'm listening to Gish in my oversized t-shirt and Doc Martens.

Naturally, as soon as I fall in love with a band my thoughts turn immediately to watching them live. I await an announcements that they will soon visit our shores and wonder if in a few months' time I will find myself hearing "Thank you, good night" in the car park or whether I will be in negotiations with a scalper for tickets to their second show. Only time will tell...