Common motifs in Simon & Garfunkel songs: clouds, rain, homesickness, sleeping lovers and restless yearning narrators, factories, shadows and moonlight, the fleeting nature of time.

Watching The Hills and tracking the way in which Heidi Montag's plastic surgeries gradually character her face with an overwhelming degree of forlornness is a fascinating activity.

Favourite recently received text message:

I cried for 2 hours, then hit the oven

After the sender's savage review of my blog, I hope she hit the oven more Sylvia Plath and less Nigella Lawson.

Stuff White People Like by Christian Lander is quite possibly the funniest thing I've ever read. So much so, I had no qualms handing over $25 for it, which for me is an epic feat. The book is simply a list of stuff 'white people' (ie. pretentious hipsters) like, and although it basically sends up my entire existence (included on the list are some of my all-time favourite things, with a sarcastically droll description of each; High School English Teachers, Hating People Who Wear Ed Hardy, The Ivy League and Sweaters- "young white people think it is very cool to wear clothes that are popular with senior citizens") I'm totally okay with it. This probably has something to do with the fact white people like self-deprecating humour (it's #103 on the list).
If, unlike me, you don't want to pay for Stuff White People Like in book form you can check it out free of charge here

So Chris Brown is a 'trending topic' on Twitter. I have no real opinion of him, except that he makes me feel inferior, because we are both basically the same age and he is making lots more money than I am, but more to the point, having way more sex.

My sister owns several Rage Against The Machine albums. This recent discovery unsettled me greatly. Although it sounds dramatic, it was as if I didn't know who she was anymore. Her music tastes had always been more moderate (the edgiest she ever got was when she downloaded a Good Charlotte album from iTunes), and I felt betrayed she had managed to smuggle these screamo CD's through our front door without even telling me. However, upon further contemplation I realised that liking this affronting music is a stage all sixteen year olds go through, in a vicious quest to have the stereotypical angst-ridden adolescence The Catcher in The Rye says you should be having. Just as my sister has Rage Against the Machine, I had Nirvana, although the interest was brief (and paled pathetically in comparison to Chris' obsession which continues to this day) and had less to do with their actual music, and more to do with the Kurt and Courtney melodrama, complete with rainy Seattle weather, Frances Bean and various drugs and mental issues, that was meticulously documented by Rolling Stone. Nicola had Incubus, before moving onto more reputable names such as The Clash and The Sex Pistols, and most stereotypical teenage boys own a few Blink 182 albums, or of they are really edgy a CD from one of Tom DeLonge's side bands. This thought allowed me to relax, and let my sister listen to the wailing sounds of Killing in the Name in peace (although that is kind of a juxtaposition).

Things associated with a Sunday night: Sam DeBrito, toasted sandwiches, 60 Minutes and an impending sense of doom.

From the archives: A profile of my frenemy Melissa Kennedy, written about 18 months ago.

Melissa Kennedy could quite possibly be the subject of any of the songs sung by her favourite emo-pop-rock bands when they belt out a tune on her favourite weekly drama One Tree Hill. The lonely, pretty mall girl breaking hearts and searching for love in a teenage wasteland, iPod dangling in ears and pigeon toes clad in Converse Sneakers, a style that was affectionately dubbed ‘dorky chic’.
Boyfriends, txt msgs and other Hills-esque dramas form the plotlines for Melissa’s life, played out to an angst-ridden soundtrack detailing the lives of fast-cars and small towns in Middle America. Kennedy exists on a diet of Blue Gem take-away alone, occasionally washing down the scallops with a Lemon Ice Tea.
Despite being dismissed as a self-absorbed blonde (a la Lauren Conrad) Melissa has proved herself to be a loyal friend whose witty advertisements and articles shock all her doubters.
However, things took a turn for the worst earlier this year, with a nasty string of incidents rocking our teen queen to the core. The failure to gain her driver’s license, a falling out with His Grace Duke Brodan Lazzarini, and doubts about MySpace lover ‘Fletch’ had friends fearing for her mental health. Melissa sought solace in hair dye, dying her locks a dark brown (a metamorphosis perhaps?) and eventually recovered.
Recovery came in the form of Nicola Cooper, who can exclusively reveal their joint lunches of Kraft Macaroni Cheese and marathon sessions of DVD box-sets helped her back to life. Melissa was last seen behind the wheel of her ‘gas-guzzling’ four-wheel drive, signalling a return to her normal life.

"She was, perhaps, the last in a line that began with Betty Grable in World War II -- the bathing beauty who seemed kissed by the sun and exuded a potent combination of innocence and sexuality. But her "Charlie's Angels" jiggle-show image presaged another world. It was the one that would come to be dominated by Brooke and her Calvins and ultimately by American Apparel ads and the celebrity sex videos of Pamela Anderson and Paris Hilton."

In case you hadn't noticed obscure Christian religions are so hot right now. Proof: the polygamous Henrickson's in Big Love (a favourite show of both Hel Cooper and I), 'Utah' a John Proctor-esque Mormon inspired fashion shoot in Brodan's beloved Black magazine and the rise of the fanatical promise-ring wielding sect of Young Hollywood who take inbreeding to a whole new level (the Jonas Brothers, Jordin Sparks, Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus et al.) Even TIME magazine reports vampire lit (or as Nicola refers to it, "paranormal romance") has been replaced by "bonnet books", love stories set amongst the "horse and buggy piety" of the Amish. My personal favourite denomination, though, would have to be the Bretheren. Never has there been a religion so highly discussed, yet so enigmatic (with the exception of Scientology). It's safe to say that Bretherens haven't had an easy ride, thanks to numerous A Current Affair style exposes, and people mistaking their aloofness for coldness, but I find them immensely intriguing. Their cottage-industry uniforms of denim skirts and bandanas, their rigid, slightly incestuous looking faces (planes of pale, smooth skin punctuated by a pair of fierce, beady eyes) and their waterfalls of untamed hair are all gloriously hypnotising. I'm definately more amazed than appalled when I imagine the goings-on of the Bretheren world behind the dark tinted windows of their people movers.

"There were little holes in the cuffs of his thermal undershirt. It was that time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone."

An account of my favourite customer: In her late forties, her hair is always unbrushed and she wears a variety of plain sweaters, all of which are covered in cat hair. However, her perfectly polished nails, nice purse (with an assortment of shiny credit cards) and Blackberry hint at a comfortable existence. She has a delicate manner, speaks in an extremely soft voice and is always very thankful. Through various meetings I pick up that she is married to an older man, for love not money, and she is the mother of a teenaged son, although she speaks of him in a way that hints distance so I figure he is at boarding school. She clutches her rolls of film in her hands like they are precious stones. Her photographs are ordinary. I have not seen her in about two months.