Gok Wan is my hero. He has relieved the hours of boredom that I have been slowly accruing whilst my three month old baby girl is attached to my boob, guzzling for endless minutes each day. My husband thinks I am nuts because all I want to do is get to a Haberdashery and buy some bows, flowers, ribbon – any shit that I can use to garnish my clothing. Husband generously offered to support ‘project embellishment’ by picking up some leaves and sticks to complement the soon-to-buy items that I will attach to my wardrobe. Funny. With a new baby, we are on a serious budget and new clothes are a no-no for a while but there is still a smile on my face (an anomoly for someone who loves clothes but can’t buy any). Why? Because good old Gok has inspired me to funk up my old clothes, which I intend to do with as many accoutrements I can find. The potential for me to end up looking like a Christmas tree is great, so I understand Husband’s mockery. Personally, I like the Christmas tree look thank you very much! There is no such thing as ‘too much’ or ‘overdone’ in my life. (more…)

Yesterday, when the little boy in front of me on the bus tantrumed for an entire hour I really tried not to judge. I know well that the poor mom trying to control little Mr Psycho could be me in two years time. But seriously! This kid was completely wild and out of control – he threw his arms and legs around like an overturned insect, he bit his mom and he screeched like a demon being exorcised back to hell. My daughter was sleeping soundly next to Mr Psycho and when he started bashing her pram I envisioned picking the kid up by his hair and throwing him out of the bus window. Lucky for Mr Psycho his mom yanked his arm away and he listened … well, he started bashing her instead of my baby’s pram. Fine by me. Everyone on the bus watched in uncomfortable silence and those with iPods thanked God in heaven and cranked up the volume. After Mr Psycho’s mom eventually managed to strap mini-Satan into his stroller (with the help of my husband) he writhed around like a mental patient in a straight-jacket and his crazed eyes darted around in search of someone who he could direct his fury at. I have heard of the ‘terrible twos’ but have never ever seen behaviour like this. I am scarred for life.

If somebody tells me about the “Mozart Effect” one more time I am going to start breaking faces. I realise that my metal music alliances may be enough to freak out the most liberal of thinkers but it would be most appreciated if people did their research.

The Mozart Effect is a theory that is based on a set of research results, which indicate that listening to Mozart’s music may induce a short-term improvement on the performance of certain kinds of mental tasks known as ‘spatial-temporal reasoning‘. Popularised versions of the theory credit the playing of classical music to babies with boosting IQ, improving health, strengthening family ties and even producing the occasional child prodigy. This idea was entrenched in the 1997 book by Don Campbell, The Mozart Effect: Tapping the Power of Music to Heal the Body, Strengthen the Mind, and Unlock the Creative Spirit. Although there have been numerous studies conducted in support of the Mozart Effect, the theory remains controversial and there are many academics and studies that debunk the extent and consistency of the proposed effects of classical music on babies. There are researchers who argue that the Mozart Effect represents only the short-term effects of classical music on mood and arousal. There are also studies concluding that although classical music may have a calming effect babies, it does not in fact improve IQ. This is why researchers continue to test whether the Mozart Effect is real and if any other styles and pieces of music have the same effect. (more…)

My favourite Barbie was the one with the blue party dress and the poofy eighties fringe. My second favourite was my Party Pink Barbie which came adorned in pink, jewels and glitz – the showstopper being a furry pink shawl sprinkled with sparkly silver stuff. I had some other pretend ‘Barbies’ that I managed to destroy: I used hand soap to wash one doll’s beautiful red hair and it remains, to this very day, stuck together in one giant dreadlock; and I had a mermaid Cindy (or something) which apparently was not supposed to be used in water despite the fact that she came with a beautiful mermaid tail – her crimped hair changed from ‘Darryl Hannah in Splash‘ to ‘Cameron Diaz in Being John Malkovich‘. Poor dollies. Taiwanese plastic is pretty sturdy but does allow for creativity that encompasses body modification, hair design and facial piercings. If my mom had taken a look at my Barbies perhaps she wouldn’t have been so surprised when I got my first tattoo, purple-black hair and piercing. I spent many a happy hour ‘playing Barbies’ with neighbours, friends, cousins and even brothers – although their version of the game was called ‘army bases’ and involved G.I. Joes, lego, micro-machines, farmyard animals and plants from the garden. (more…)

You gotta love metalheads! Last night I, along with my 34 week pregnant belly, went to a Paradise Lost gig at Islington Academy in London – as fan and music journalist. So whilst the husband and his photo pass were hanging out with the important peeps up front, I made my way upstairs – wisely thinking that my baby girl, although a fan of Paradise Lost, would not appreciate being crunched against a hoard of sweaty metallers for two hours. Luckily there was a nice comfy couch with my name written all over it, so I sat my ass down to wait for the metal masters of doom and gloom to inflict their brilliance on the night. (more…)

Whilst walking home on Friday night, I was fortunate enough to witness three guys perform a stealth operation right in front of my very eyes: one was the designated tip-tagger, and the other two were lookouts. Once the deed had been done they bolted down the street as if the armed forces were breathing bullets down their necks. I shook my head and then laughed out loud as I considered how bored and unstimulated one must feel to find the act of signing a rubbish bin so enthralling. The whole adolescent, gangster-wannabe thing seems just a tad … um … pointless. If I wanted to mark my territory I would find a more attractive way of doing it. Challenging authority through art or intellect seems to be far more useful than vandalising public property with some lame-ass signature. But dawgs will be dogs – at least urine wasn’t involved. (more…)

Today my colleague at work asked me if I am going to eat my placenta, and if so, would I eat it raw or have it made into pills. As my jaw proceeded to drop and dribble extricated itself from my mouth, I managed to splutter an adamant “No!” So, here’s the deal: placentophagy is on the rise and is not only limited to weirdo actors and their scientologist friends.

Naturally, I was curious as to why a person would consider eating the bloody membranous afterbirth that is expelled from a woman’s body after her baby has been born. Recent research (based on experiments conducted on rats … nice) shows that the placenta and amniotic fluid of a woman contains a molecule (POEF, Placental Opioid-Enhancing Factor) that modifies the activity of endogenous opioids in a way that produces an enhancement of the natural reduction in pain that occurs shortly after and during delivery. Some doctors, therefore, prescribe placenta consumption as medicine to help stem bleeding after birth and to help the uterus clean itself out. The placenta is rich in nutrients (iron and protein) that will help the mother heal after childbirth, and is also known to be a great source of vitamins and minerals, which are thought to help fight postpartum depression – vitamin B6 is great for this. Other benefits of placentophagy include an increase in energy levels, increased production of breast milk and a decrease in the likelihood of iron deficiency and thus insomnia or sleep disorders. One has to wonder why boiled, canned or pilled placenta is not readily available in local pharmacies? (more…)

An anonymously-designed poster depicting Barack Obama as The Joker, from Batman film The Dark Knight, has appeared in dozens of locations across Los Angeles. The word “socialism” is written underneath the menacingly painted face of the US President. It is thought the posters are a reaction to Obama’s recent policy announcements on health care and stimulus spending. Whatever the poster’s intention, the image has sparked debates, arguments and sheer bewilderment. Democrats are up in arms; Republicans are secretly (or not so secretly) smiling gleefully. Andrew Sullivan, in political blog the Daily Dish, states: “It’s graphically striking, but politically obtuse. The Joker is a wild man; Obama is no-drama; the Joker is an anarchist; Obama is a community organiser.” Jack Napier offers a great comment on the LA Times blog: “The Joker would have a field day turning both sides on the other while they eat themselves, that’s the whole point of the Joker…And maybe that’s the whole point of the joke; create a controversy, upset the apple cart, and watch people go!”

Whatever your opinion, the poster certainly is a great piece of political commentary – it’s ambiguous, controversial and has managed to incite the masses. Political satire is an important part of modern culture. It makes the ‘powers that be’ accountable in some small way. So here’s the thing: who created it? America is a free country – the right to freedom of expression is protected: so where is the architect of all this mayhem hiding out … and why? Mr Architect has the balls to challenge the US president but refuses to own up to it: it’s lameness personified. The fact that the poster is anonymous seems to undermine its effect rather than enhance it. It’s the work of a coward. Even The Joker declared his person – the sociopath laid claim to his acts of terror and intimidation. Come out and claim your comment Mr Architect!

“What you seek is nowhere; but turn yourself away, and the object of your love will be no more. That which you behold is but the shadow of a reflected form and has no substance of its own. With you it comes, with you it gostays, and it will go with you” (Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.433)

The beautiful Narcissus was divinely punished for his exceptionally cruel despisal of those who fell in love with him. He was thus caused, by the gods, to fall in love with his own reflection in a pool. Unable to obtain the object of his love and not being able to break away from the beauty of his own reflection, Narcissus pined away alongside the pool and, succumbing to his sorrow, finally perished. (more…)

Did you know that the ANC has its own dictionary? It is used to define words and phrases used by party members. According to this very resourceful item of explanation, the definition of sleeping around is … sleeping around. Most profound. This definition is reiterated again and again … and again in Redi Direko’s live interview with ANC spokesman Floyd Shivambu. It is a wonderfully entertaining thing when a spokesperson – the person hired to articulate and express on behalf of an organisation, manages, so unskilfully, to dodge the simplest of questions. I certainly basked in the hilarity. (more…)