1. The Pube Guy
Ladies: pubes are in.
The men of Tinder have finally cottoned on to the growing demand for up front genital hair, and now more and more are posting a display picture that includes an ever-so-alluring hint of what can only be that delicately manscaped pube patch us women have been crying out for. Continue reading
Kings Cross is the kind of place you go to escape from somewhere else, but never just to visit.
Slick, stone-faced business men in navy suits and shiny brown shoes brush past the scaly, withered forms of prostitutes – none of whom are young. The beautiful (or, at the least, passable) girls sucked into this moral abyss work their trade from the safety of the innumerable of strip joints lining the streets. The ‘gear’ robbed homeless men of their desire for anything, even a direction to walk in, long ago, and they meander, slowly and ghostlike, driven by one aim alone. Their vacant eyes don’t read the token quotes about finding merit in the muck the government, in some vain attempt at creating culture, has facetiously etched into the pavement. Continue reading
Her psychosis was so drawn out it had taken on an invisible quality – a deceptive, deathly subtlety. Continue reading
An uneasy feeling crept into my gut the moment I laid eyes on him. The meth-induced yellow tinge of his plaque-encrusted smile, the wet gangrenous look of his sandelled feet, the dart of his beady eyes, they all urged me to be certain I was never left alone with Steven. Continue reading
Table 12. I am back where I was 12 hours ago.
“It’s like you never left,” jokes Gerard, my charismatically cynical floor manager.
I glance across the table. Holy shit. He’s still here. Continue reading
It’s a seedy morning at the transit centre. For as long as I can remember Roma Street Transit Centre has had these mirrors all around the escalator, casting vicious reflective judgement upon you as you make your way, tired and desperate, up to the inevitable McDonalds lunch that awaits. Continue reading
Stray dogs and shirtless kids wander under street light as the team enters Elcho Island. Their car pelted with rocks, Bo-dene announces it’s “the scariest place I’ve been in my life”.
The weary travellers are welcomed into Timmy Gudumurrkuwuy’s furniture-free household of seventeen. Well-meaning police officer Trent asks, “Is this, like, your kitchen, dining and lounge all in one?”
Yep. Continue reading
So you think you can write, ey? You may have some natural ability but unrefined talent will only get you so far. Like most skills, writing well takes practise and it only takes a few slips in tense, a single sentence fragment, or a meandering introduction to make a reader file your content in the “meh” tray forever. Avoid looking like a n00b and/or giving your editor/teacher/professor/clients a frustration-induced brain aneurysm by following this simple list of tips for rookie writers I devised when sifting through my own contributor’s articles.
Saturday’s much anticipated Vibesquad and Spoonbill gig was, well, as good as any gig at the perpetually overrated Hifi will get. Continue reading
Last night’s ENEI/KASRA/MEFJUS gig at Coniston Lane was an intriguing conglomeration of Brisbane’s D ‘n’ B scenes. Hosted by Timmy P MC from New Zealand’s Breaking Beats crew, the evening saw the unusual convergence of tatted up gangster rap fans and Coniston Lane’s regular tripper crowd. Continue reading
There are bad dreams, then there are nightmares.
The magic of the outdoor festival lies not just in gathering as a tribe to collectively bust a move to psychedelic tunes you can’t find anywhere else; it’s the freedom discovered under a gum tree a million miles from the pesky world (with it’s laws and bills and deadlines) that makes these gatherings such a sweet relief!
A bush festival is a place where, no longer bound by the usual constraints of “civilised society”, you can frolic in free and naked ecstasy. It’s a place where nobody cares what you wear, no demands are made on your time, and you can express yourself without fear.
So, logically it follows that nothing is more anti-festival than the presence of a big fat judgey cat sitting up on their moral high horse judging all the filthy hippies below. Right?
Wrong! Whilst you’ll often hear the phrase, “I don’t judge maaan” (except of course, judgements relating to judgey people, who are judged to be despicable judgers!) uttered at a festival, there are in fact times when it’s not only perfectly acceptable to judge, but it’s necessary. Of course, we aren’t talking about judging someone’s value as a person here, we are talking about judging behaviours and attitudes which fly in the face of the outdoor festival creed. Continue reading
Whether you’re a road trip virgin with big dreams for your beat up mini van, or you’re a bona fide enthusiast with a garage full of classic VWs to prove it, follow my guide and you’ll be sure to make your portable house a place to call home. Feel free to comment with any additional tips you have, this list is by no means all-inclusive! Continue reading
He works under a high security clearance in the mining industry. Up until recently, she worked for a bank. The VLAD (Vicious Lawless Antisocial Disestablishment) laws have transformed the lives of a quiet Ipswich couple, whose only connection with motorcycles is a World War Two BMW sidecar bike barely capable of breaking the urban speed limit. Continue reading