Introduction to Pole Dancing

There's been a lot of talk in recent years about the evolving mainstream popularity of pole dancing. One view is that it's an activity that liberate's a woman's sense of self, that it empowers her and can really bring about an improvement in confidence.

The other view is that it is a step backwards; we're fooling ourselves into thinking we're undertaking something liberating when we're actually following the same old script of objectification, and voluntarily draping ourselves all over a phallic shaped object, trying to fool ourselves that this is feminism.

My initial reasons for starting pole-dancing were: 1) I want Linda Hamilton's Terminator arms 2) A friend of mine did it and I tend to like similar stuff to her, so i figured it might be a good AND fun way to burn off those 2 kilos i got for Xmas, and 3) I'm admittedly curious.

After reading 'Female Chauvinist Pigs' by Ariel Levy, I can grasp the logic of those who believe that 'raunch culture' is an insidious enemy of the progress of feminism. I'm not saying I necessarily agree with it, but I can follow their path of thought. It reminds me of the Matrix movies; we think we're free and that there is no war to fight, but ultimately we may still be blindly dancing to the tune of the enemy. We think that we western women are liberated and have achieved general equality; that this was fought for and won long before we paid our $200 and showed up in our shorts and high heels. But when we embrace that which epitomises 'raunch culture' - pole dancing, for one - are we taking three steps back? Are we undoing the good work of our predecessors?

As usual it's a definition debate, and the argument is totally depandent on your strain of feminism.

After my first class tonight, I can only say that each and every single girl in that room walked out flushed and smiling. If their thoughts were anything like mine, it was something along the lines of : a) How addictive was that b) God my thighs hurt but i don't care c) A week is a long time to wait for the next lesson.

I don't see how going to a pole dancing class, in a room full of other women who are having a bloody awesome time, working up a sweat and getting that great endorphin rush, is any different from a regular dance class, aside from the connotations that some may or may not consider promiscuous, or 'raunchy'. Oh, and yeah - there's a pole.

I am obviously leaning towards the 'empowered' argument, the reason being that it was a down to earth, unpretentious environment where women let go of (some) of their inhibitions, and experimented. To me, it felt like the celebration of the female form.

I consider myself a feminist, and I'll be right back at class next week.

New Years Schmew Years

SO, we're in the last hours of 2006. I bet it's been at least a couple of weeks that everyone's been feeling their New Years Eve Anxiety.

You know - that sense that EVERYONE in the ENTIRE world is doing something more fun, or cooler or more original than what you have planned. OR - you don't have anything planned. OR, you have a bunch of friends who have made vague allusions to doing something in particular, and you're hoping that it will all come together in the end.

How ridiculous is it that we feel so much pressure to have the best time ever on the one night of the year where you're lucky to be able to get a taxi?

I've done the whole Sydney New Year's Eve thing many times, and admittedly it is a spectacular show, the vibe is amazing (not including the transport rage post-midnight fireworks), and it does fill you with the wonderful reassurance that you've done the 'right thing' by 'making the most of it'.

Hell, even Paris Hilton is partying here this year, courtesy of a nice pay packet from John Singleton. But let's face it, if cartoon-giraffe-meets-spray-tanned-tranny is the order of the day for New Years, I'm glad I'm not going. It would be fun to see if her next pair of oversized sunglasses causes her to topple over into the gutter (sans panties of course), but I'm sure NW will have the skinny next week.


For me, it's dinner somewhere local, then enjoying a few rooftop bevvies (Duvel could be in the picture) up the road at a friend's flat. I can't tell you how impressed i am that i'll be able to walk home rather than attempt to bribe a Sydney cabbie.

It is tempting to stay home and watch Gretel Killeen and Daniel Macpherson's wrap up 'on the telly', but it's only late December/soon to be eary Janury, and I don't know if my heart can take seeing Gretel slapped together and strung like a glamourous mature chicken so early in the year.

Happiness is the nemesis of creative productivity

I have not written anything on this soapbox blog for a long time. There is a reason and frankly it makes me feel like a Disney character to admit it. Either that or a prime candidate for a Dr Phil aftershot.

I have been happy.

I know, it's a cause for concern. (yes, people, i'm being sarcastic, GOD).

Look, i'm sure it's stems from achieving goals. Don't worry, it can't go on forever. Disney happy endings aren't real. If you were to watch the real ending of a Disney movie, you'd probably see those dwarves sign up to be extras in midget porn after getting jilted by Snow White. Prince Charming and Cinderella would be ordering leather fetish face masks and straps online to maintain the passion. Beauty would be complaining about having to clean the Beast's hair from the plughole. The only happy endings are the one's where people die happy, because if we achieve happiness and yet remain alive, we always want more. It's one of those terrible truths about humans; no matter how much we get, we always want more.

So if motivation stems from an unfulfilled need, perhaps happiness leads to inproductivity. It's a cliche that famous creative people throughout history have been, shall we say, lacking in the cheeriness department. But saying it's a cliche doesn't mean it's without validity; it just means someone said it before you.

I wonder if there are many people of my generation who simply aren't going to be happy with...being happy. Think about it: we are the generation brought up on cyclical t.v seasons of drama. T.V has taught us nothing if not that happiness is shortlived (not to mention that you're a prime target for an impending death) and also - BORING. We prefer doomed relationships and cliffhangers. Our generation cannot cope with happiness, as it means that dramatic peaks will not be reached. The sad music won't strike up. We won't be the stars of our own miniseries anymore. Ultimately, happiness is an unthinkable COPOUT. How do you think people get addicted to melodrama? It's at least interesting, compared to lovely romantic walks on the beach and mutually enjoyable cups of tea. FUCK OFF.

Faking my own death and other handy ways to escape my life.

1. Disappear after swimming out to sea ala Harold Holt.
2. Disappear after being seen on a random highway wearing a backpack.
3. Buy some of that heart stopping drug on ebay and get a trustworthy person to pour antidote in my mouth after I'm interned.
4. Join the Scientology cult and tell people I'm ridding myself of 'engrams'
5. Fake catatonia until I end up in a mental institute where I will keep a secret notebook detailing the eccentricities of the neurotic freaks around me. Oh, wait, Winona Ryder already did that...
6. Join the circus and become a gypsy dancer.
7. Start a treasure hunt for the Holy Grail.

What I achieved today

Please select out of the following which applies to you:

Today I:

a) Managed to inadvertantly imply that I have had a sex change while speaking to an important client.

b) Ate 2 slices of tiramisu in place of dinner

c) Deliberately incited an inter-office email war due to festering bitterness

d) Non-deliberately incited interpersonal shit-fight due to other people's festering bitterness and my inability to relinquish control.

d) Stared at one document for 4 hours without making ANY progress

e) Laughed at a colleague when she spoke of her quarter life crisis while eating her birthday cake.

f) All of the above.

Hmmm....can you guess which one applies to me???

I find depression in the little things...

Tonight, after making my lunch for tomorrow and just generally pottering around the kitchen, I can safely say I now know with 100% certainty that an inanimate object is capable of making me depressed.

Functional...but inanimate. I think the world would be a better place if this item did not exist. I don't even know what to call it, but that's ok because such a horrible object does not deserve a name. It's a nasty symbol of the degenerative nature of the physical world and quite frankly gives me the willies.

What is the item that opens the floodgates of despair? Well...I still don't know what it's called, but I'll describe it: it goes in the plughole when you let the dishwashing water out, and collects the floaties. It's a small, circular little strainer-thingy.

It captures all manner of semi solid squalor, and holds in there, ready for your perusal once the waters recede. And when you try and take the fucking thing out to empty the crap into the bin? Well, it sticks there, doesn't it. There is the inevitable moment where you are going to have to peel what feels like a clot of swollen, wet, discarded animal orifices from off the offending item.

The part that really gets me? It doesn't even keep the sink cleaner anyhow!! There is always that last piece of slime that doesn't come off. If I wanted to be a real depressive fuck, then i'd compare it to life: we're all a fucked up little-strainer-thing, trying to keep the shit out, trying to stay clean, trying to do the most menial fucking crap because it's our PURPOSE. The catch - we still end up covered in a clot of swollen, wet, discarded animal orifices.


I think what has me so depressed may have more to do with how i spent last night that my squalid sinkware, actually (although I'm boycotting those fucking things , and intend to steal them from every house i visit given the chance, drains be damned). Truth be told I finally got around to watching the directors cut of Donnie Darko, and while it was a brilliant film, it's probably not the best thing to enertain yourself with when along and trying to sustain mental stability. There is of course the man sized demonic rabbit who foretells the end of the world in a synthesisied voice, which is bad enough, but then the sound track got under my skin and I've been jumpy ever since. The paradoxes have made my mind all loopy and the ambiguity of the theme and genre, while very impressive, have left me feeling like I've either had a massively bloating meal, or an overpriced tiny one; I'm not sure which.

You are silent - rightly so
Light sucked into corners and
others (not you) drop words into air;
they are light, floating to ceilings
not sinking and final and heavy
up there time dangles a chance to change, rewrite.
There was a script I didn't follow and now
all i have of you are seconds
where distant figures could wear your face