It has been bought to my attention that the internet (and maybe even the world minus Africa and Antarctica) has been inundated by people writing articles about the phenomenon of the hipster. How this defined group of people are full of contradictions and sucking the meaning out of former staple working class values like smoking and wearing flanellette.
Phrases like 'ironically detached,' 'narcissism,' and 'Lisa Pryor' are pretty common in these articles. The central theme invariably involves the writer just doing a bunch of philosophy about themself, concluding that a hipster is a bad thing to be. The conclusion usually starts with an accepting sigh: '(SIGH!) Well, I don't care what you say, I'm GLAD I'm not a hipster. (SMUG SIGH) I guess I'll have to be content being a regular, observant white person who lives in the inner city and writes feature articles in the first person. Definetly not a hipster though.'
BONUS: I have decided to write my own definition of hipsters.
Hipster: A Definition by James Ross-Edwards
Hipster is a word that's thrown around all too often these days. Sometimes underpants are called hipsters. If these underpants worked at Bourke St Bakery, would they forget that hospitality is more about being nice than wearing a plaid pinafore and being a dick?
Hipsters usually do things like go to Bandits and be DJs. Some hipsters dress like pirates, others go to club nights that have the F. word in the title. Ketamine is a main drug of hipsters (citation needed).
Monday, October 27, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Everybody needs bio.
Even Peter Fitzsimons. He would insist on writing his own, probably mostly about walking the Kokoda Trail and how schoolboy rugby should be on the ABC on Saturday afternoons instead of the Shute Shield match of the week.
"I'm sorry, Peter, I can't agree there." James said.
"What do you mean? Move out of the way mate, I'm on my way to meet Billy Birmingham. We're going on his yacht, maybe collaborating on a project too."
"Bullshit. Are you going to do a Baltimore remix of the Twelfth Man? Or are you just going to go on and on in the paper, like you always do?"
"Jesus. Go away."
He didn't get my sense of humour at all. He doesn't even know what Baltimore is!*
*Baltimore is a word that people say if it is 2007, and they are in Sydney.
I* wrote a bio for a DJ named Roulade instead. He is from rouladeunlimited.com. Here it is:
*After re-reading, it is apparent that Roulade wrote some bits of this himself. "Perthonality," for example, is all his.
ROULADE
With his former moniker (Turbosaurus) ageing faster than the concept of the allover print hoodie, unnamed required something new. After reading in a fashion/culture blog that the two fads of the day were French things and fashion/culture blogs, a new direction was taken sans time wasting. Road-testing all manner of stage props from crucifixes to laser pyramids, grew tired or gimmicks, subversive street art and the foul taste of cigarette smoke.
Foregoing his commitments as a floundering Perthonality, unnamed relocated to Sydney in early 2008, keen to see the sun rise over water. Bitterly disappointed and seeking wisdom, unnamed turned to The Good Dude Radge, who immediately directed him towards the door of one of those soup kitchens in Darlinghurst that feed homeless people. Not sharing Radge’s benevolent nature, he left him to it, later conferring over a bespoke instant messaging program, they decided on Roulade.
“Roulade is intertextual, as it references a popular French dish.” Roulade paused before adding, “and anyone that doesn’t consider food a text is a wanker.”
“So one night at [place] we were supporting [name]. I was sitting in the green room having a drink and this young guy with a [haircut] and [shoes] walks up to me and says: ‘Roulade! Those jams earlier were pretty sick.’ I said thanks. He then asked me, rhetorically I think, ‘how do you do it, dude?’ Do you know what I said?”
“No?”
“I told him that I ensure that there is a CD playing at all times…”
“That’s all?”
“Nah, I also try and avoid Crookers remixes (loudly raise roof x3).”
Since his east coast relocation, Roulade has been gently simmering in the fruitier side of the 4/4 time signature, dealing heavily in [insert specific genres] as well as occasionally dabbling in [street cred genre].
If you want to know where to find him, follow the beats (bold text = growled out loud). If that doesn’t work, just call his work… The receptionist is lovely and will put you straight through.
"I'm sorry, Peter, I can't agree there." James said.
"What do you mean? Move out of the way mate, I'm on my way to meet Billy Birmingham. We're going on his yacht, maybe collaborating on a project too."
"Bullshit. Are you going to do a Baltimore remix of the Twelfth Man? Or are you just going to go on and on in the paper, like you always do?"
"Jesus. Go away."
He didn't get my sense of humour at all. He doesn't even know what Baltimore is!*
*Baltimore is a word that people say if it is 2007, and they are in Sydney.
I* wrote a bio for a DJ named Roulade instead. He is from rouladeunlimited.com. Here it is:
*After re-reading, it is apparent that Roulade wrote some bits of this himself. "Perthonality," for example, is all his.
ROULADE
With his former moniker (Turbosaurus) ageing faster than the concept of the allover print hoodie, unnamed required something new. After reading in a fashion/culture blog that the two fads of the day were French things and fashion/culture blogs, a new direction was taken sans time wasting. Road-testing all manner of stage props from crucifixes to laser pyramids,
Foregoing his commitments as a floundering Perthonality, unnamed relocated to Sydney in early 2008, keen to see the sun rise over water. Bitterly disappointed and seeking wisdom, unnamed turned to The Good Dude Radge, who immediately directed him towards the door of one of those soup kitchens in Darlinghurst that feed homeless people. Not sharing Radge’s benevolent nature, he left him to it, later conferring over a bespoke instant messaging program, they decided on Roulade.
“Roulade is intertextual, as it references a popular French dish.” Roulade paused before adding, “and anyone that doesn’t consider food a text is a wanker.”
“So one night at [place] we were supporting [name]. I was sitting in the green room having a drink and this young guy with a [haircut] and [shoes] walks up to me and says: ‘Roulade! Those jams earlier were pretty sick.’ I said thanks. He then asked me, rhetorically I think, ‘how do you do it, dude?’ Do you know what I said?”
“No?”
“I told him that I ensure that there is a CD playing at all times…”
“That’s all?”
“Nah, I also try and avoid Crookers remixes (loudly raise roof x3).”
Since his east coast relocation, Roulade has been gently simmering in the fruitier side of the 4/4 time signature, dealing heavily in [insert specific genres] as well as occasionally dabbling in [street cred genre].
If you want to know where to find him, follow the beats (bold text = growled out loud). If that doesn’t work, just call his work… The receptionist is lovely and will put you straight through.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Something new.
I was asked to write some creative writing by a guy for a thing. This is what I wrote:
Frank Sartor: A Novel by James Ross-Edwards
Frank Sartor awoke with a start. It was 4:51am. Nightmares and cold sweats were routine for him, and he cursed the day he ever decided to be a crime-solving pilot. Hauling himself upright, Frank answered his bedside phone, which had been ringing for some time.
"Hello?" He answered, grumpily.
"My name is Detective Amber Liebervitz, I am calling on urgent business from Europe." The voice was foreignly accented, and perhaps sinister.
"Hey listen buddy, it's the middle of the night– "
"Mr Sartor." The clipped European voice continued. "I suggested you listen, and listen carefully-"
"No I suggest you listen!" Frank was getting mad. If there was something he didn't like, it was getting woken up by a nut. And this is exactly what had just happened. “Mr Liebervitz, I’m a pilot that solves crime. Do you have any idea how busy I am? I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. With all due respect, this better be important.”
“It’s the Bermuda Triangle, Mr Sartor.”
“What about it?”
“You will be informed in good time, Sir. That is, if you agree to help us.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“There is a car waiting for you. Good day, Mr Sartor.”
Frank sighed and reached for his pilot’s pants. It was going to be a long day.
---
For lack of any material of my own, I have commissioned a friend of mine, Frank, to write creatively on my behalf. I pay him in friendship and an occasional cooked dinner, and he completes my assignments and any other projects that come my way. Frank is not a brilliant author or particularly creative, but, unbeknownst to himself, his writing comes across with a distinct postmodern edge. The pastiche is thickened when the work is passed off as my own, resulting in an alarmingly satisfying dialogue between author and audience:
"Are you having a pretty satisfying time, reader?"
"I'm having such a satisfying time, dude."*
*Simplified conversation
---
"So James, what have you been up to lately?"
"Not much, hey. Writing some fiction and stuff a bit, I s'pose."
"What sort of fiction?"
"The kind that isn't true. It mainly focuses on a central character called Frank Sartor."
“…”
"Oh and before you ask, it isn't anything to do with the former NSW Government Minister!"
"Yeah. I know. You know another guy called Frank Sartor. You tell me this every time you drink. You texted me those exact words last week."
"A cry for help, a –"
"What?"
"Sorry man, I was just starting a soliloquy. Do you read much Contemp-Amer?"
"Wha–"
"Contemporary American literature. Like Dave Eggers, McSweeney’s and that. It's crap, I hate it. So much smug irony, all playing with language. I swear I'm going to cancel my subscription soon..."
"This is a lopsided conversation."
"(d)ude sometimes you have to play with the laws of language and gramm’ar for a certain effect."
"It sounds like you're crying out for help. All just John Brogden-ing in the office you don't actually have. Just like, three gin and tonics with actual lime wedges, texting an old school friend something cryptic and vague that could mean something, but doesn't."*
---
On the way to the cockpit, Frank remembered that he was wearing his lucky blue satin boxer shorts. His crime-solving mentor, Captain Joe Harvey, had given them to him, as a graduation present, and he never flew without them. Yeah Boi, he thought to himself. Yeah boiii.*
*I’m sorry James, but I don't know where to continue to from here. Spicks and Specks is about to start. Below I have included an internet diary that I’ve been working on. Maybe you can include this in your novel about me?
Frank ☺
Frank is sick of work now. 07:17 PM September 22, 2008
At nans. 01:42 PM September 23, 2008
1 spaghetti bolognese please Mum! 10:30 PM September 23, 2008
Frank is maybe actually gearing up for a big night in The Cross??? 04:22 PM September 25, 2008
Frank Sartor: A Novel by James Ross-Edwards
Frank Sartor awoke with a start. It was 4:51am. Nightmares and cold sweats were routine for him, and he cursed the day he ever decided to be a crime-solving pilot. Hauling himself upright, Frank answered his bedside phone, which had been ringing for some time.
"Hello?" He answered, grumpily.
"My name is Detective Amber Liebervitz, I am calling on urgent business from Europe." The voice was foreignly accented, and perhaps sinister.
"Hey listen buddy, it's the middle of the night– "
"Mr Sartor." The clipped European voice continued. "I suggested you listen, and listen carefully-"
"No I suggest you listen!" Frank was getting mad. If there was something he didn't like, it was getting woken up by a nut. And this is exactly what had just happened. “Mr Liebervitz, I’m a pilot that solves crime. Do you have any idea how busy I am? I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. With all due respect, this better be important.”
“It’s the Bermuda Triangle, Mr Sartor.”
“What about it?”
“You will be informed in good time, Sir. That is, if you agree to help us.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“There is a car waiting for you. Good day, Mr Sartor.”
Frank sighed and reached for his pilot’s pants. It was going to be a long day.
---
For lack of any material of my own, I have commissioned a friend of mine, Frank, to write creatively on my behalf. I pay him in friendship and an occasional cooked dinner, and he completes my assignments and any other projects that come my way. Frank is not a brilliant author or particularly creative, but, unbeknownst to himself, his writing comes across with a distinct postmodern edge. The pastiche is thickened when the work is passed off as my own, resulting in an alarmingly satisfying dialogue between author and audience:
"Are you having a pretty satisfying time, reader?"
"I'm having such a satisfying time, dude."*
*Simplified conversation
---
"So James, what have you been up to lately?"
"Not much, hey. Writing some fiction and stuff a bit, I s'pose."
"What sort of fiction?"
"The kind that isn't true. It mainly focuses on a central character called Frank Sartor."
“…”
"Oh and before you ask, it isn't anything to do with the former NSW Government Minister!"
"Yeah. I know. You know another guy called Frank Sartor. You tell me this every time you drink. You texted me those exact words last week."
"A cry for help, a –"
"What?"
"Sorry man, I was just starting a soliloquy. Do you read much Contemp-Amer?"
"Wha–"
"Contemporary American literature. Like Dave Eggers, McSweeney’s and that. It's crap, I hate it. So much smug irony, all playing with language. I swear I'm going to cancel my subscription soon..."
"This is a lopsided conversation."
"(d)ude sometimes you have to play with the laws of language and gramm’ar for a certain effect."
"It sounds like you're crying out for help. All just John Brogden-ing in the office you don't actually have. Just like, three gin and tonics with actual lime wedges, texting an old school friend something cryptic and vague that could mean something, but doesn't."*
---
On the way to the cockpit, Frank remembered that he was wearing his lucky blue satin boxer shorts. His crime-solving mentor, Captain Joe Harvey, had given them to him, as a graduation present, and he never flew without them. Yeah Boi, he thought to himself. Yeah boiii.*
*I’m sorry James, but I don't know where to continue to from here. Spicks and Specks is about to start. Below I have included an internet diary that I’ve been working on. Maybe you can include this in your novel about me?
Frank ☺
Frank is sick of work now. 07:17 PM September 22, 2008
At nans. 01:42 PM September 23, 2008
1 spaghetti bolognese please Mum! 10:30 PM September 23, 2008
Frank is maybe actually gearing up for a big night in The Cross??? 04:22 PM September 25, 2008
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