Melbourne I Love you, But leaf me to be.

It's autumn time in Melbourne and by golly ol' chap, those leaves are falling. Brown. Red. Yellow. Other colours. Wandering through Princes park is a sight to behold, and my fresh new self is hit in the face by two realities; where the hell was I last autumn? And how can all these runners breathe when it's so damn cold? Recently I just woke up from a self induced coma one can only describe as a whirlwind of hallucinagens, amphetamines and booze which aimed to destroy my ability to keep things from not breaking, and to remember where I was for a whole season last year. I look at those leaves piled like snow flakes and I wonder why it feels like an eternity since I've seen anything this beautiful. Well, when I'm not tripping balls. And it occured to me that in these times of poverty when one cannot afford such luxuries as lying in a gutter laughing at an odd shaped crack or dancing up and down parliament stairs pretending to be a chorus girl, we can stop and smell the err leaves. So I was standing in princes park smelling a leaf, when I "awoke" to the stare of a super fit annoyingly outfitted young runner who goggled me with that "you wish you looked like me" kind  of look. It was then that I realised that being poor has given me a well needed mind holiday from that sweet pull of the "other world". And I basked in that glorious moment of not being that girl. I bet she hasn't stood in Princes park smelling leaves.
I can assume that the runner at this point was thinking a number of things about the oddity of my situation, which I might add is not really that odd for the north side, but I'm going to go with this: "keep going, nearly there, wierd girl, keep going nearly there". Because as much as we like to think that others really care about what we are doing, or might write about us in a blog, the truth is that people care more about themselves, and rarely will stop to smell the person smelling the leaf.

Melbourne I love you but Brunswick street is not cool, so shut up.

Brunswick street is not cool. So Shut up. The Night Cat is not cool. So Shut up. House Tequila tastes like shit. So shut up. Phat is too expensive. Savers is a co-orporation. Situations are only awkward because your being awkward. So shut up or stop being awkward. Weird is good, not weird. So shut up about shit being weird; that's what makes it so good. Music in melbourne has no balls. So shut up or grow some. Seahorses are the only males in the animal kingdom that become pregnant. NOT frogs for fuck sake. Lemon should not come with fish. So stop putting it on there. Fries are the skinny chips. If the menu says fries, I expect them to be half a centimeter in diameter at their fattest. Anything else is a chip. Drive through fish and chips is a good idea. Some one do it. Lygon street shopping district is expensive. So don't go there. Fruit and Veg shops are cheaper than supermarkets. So shut up and stop being lazy. If you are over 25, baseball caps are no longer allowed to be an item in your wardrobe. and if your over 40, that, is not even up for discussion. Cd's suck. Vinyls are and always will be better. Even though they are trendy, they are and always will be better. Don't judge a person on their cd collection alone; find out if they have had a good enough income in the past 3 years to suppport cd gain. If so, judge away. If not, give them a cd. If you like a band, please dance. But do not make a point of dancing so obscurely, just to make a point. We've got the point. You can't be feeling the music so much that it throws your body aggressively around the room, and blinds you so that you accidently bump into everyone else in the croud. And who does the fishing dance these days? But you were just feeling it weren't you. You were weren't you. You didn't even notice that the small child you've been so eagerly obsessed with teaching high fives to whilst flailing your limbs in time to the bongo blues, is not even liking the fact that you keep making gaga eyes at him teamed with a high five'esque "I'm gonna kill your teddy's while you sleep" kind of smile. He's a small child for god's sake. But hey, thank god he's learned to recognise douchebags like you at an early age. Maybe I should take you to all the primary schools around Melbourne. I'll bring the bongos and I'll introduce you as Stan, and then I'll start playing. No doubt you'll select the first kid who accidentally looks at you a little to long. And we're away. Saving Melbourne together Stan. Is that what you want Stan? Is that what you want?

Melbourne I Love You, But Your Under My Skin.

Since when did we become so bland Melbourne? Just because you have an effect pedal or two and lovely little echo on that soft Scotch College purchased sound of yours, doesn’t mean that you will remain in our brain for any longer than the time you stop playing. Hey little Velcro foot, you can’t buy our love. You can however purchase a bio and a slot in line at the “I’ve been told to like you” awards; one condition though: you must write to please.

Please don’t be disheartened though. It’s easy enough to write mundane lyrics that cater to the masses of tasteless zombies that answer every call of the media and pine for the next “release of the year”. But they don’t think clear. There is a melanomaesque sound that can only be seen from the outside as a little black dot, but Melbourne, it’s crawling under your skin and feeding off everything you think is healthy and pure. You know what; it too is healthy and pure. You just choose not to admit it, or acknowledge it. It’s fucking there alright.

There’s anger and aggression and veiny neck pulsations, driven by inner sensations and the ridicule you once endured. Don’t deny that part of you Melbourne. Since when did we lose that urge to push boundaries, innovate, create and show those scarlet tears that pervade into our songs. Why do you hide it Melbourne? We are all fucked up. Don’t think that that slick school-boy appearance hides the fact that you are a burning flame that will not be put out. Do you want your fire lit? Then come out come out wherever you are. There’s still time.

Leave your assumptions and predictability behind and visit a place that seethes with hopeless yearning, mockers and rockers and the living dead, fuckers and fighters and rutheless lyricists, of victims and learners, of challengers and addicts, of beauty and sexual engorgement, of terrible nightmares and hearty laughter, and thereafter, you might wake the fuck up Melbourne.