Stock photo proves lipstick effect, introduces recessionary anti-waxing theory.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Abandoned London
Flickrset from the ingenious IanVisits:
It's so lovely to reminisce about a city I dislike almost as much as Hong Kong.
Xmas morning is the only time that London is (almost) empty of humans - so a morning spent cycling around town taking photos.
It's so lovely to reminisce about a city I dislike almost as much as Hong Kong.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
An open letter to Hong Kong
Dear Hong Kong,
I know we don't know each other all that well and I normally wait a few vodkas before settling into the "let Amoir share her forthright opinions about you with a free side of cuss", but it has to be said.
You fucking suck. And the epicentre of your suck resides at Chunking Mansions.
Here is a view similar to what you will see at Chungking Mansions:
Hong Kong, I realise I wanted a cultural experience and to experience all you had to offer but it appears all that was on the menu were TB, randy Parisians who won't take no for an answer, annoying men trying to whisk you away to a curry house/hostel you have no intention of visiting and a cast of characters that even Goya could not paint.
By the way, in answer to your populace: no I do not want any motherfucking jewellry, handbags, watches, electronics, curry, silk 0r tailoring you motherfucking mosquitos of commerce. Also, Hong Kong, get your people to stop staring at me for pairing an Akira dress with Doc Martens and a red felt cloche cap! And sorry about telling one of your people to fuck the fuck off but really after 4 hours of trying to avoid the entreaties of sales people, I became the worst Western tourist imagined.
In short, Hong Kong, fuck you and may I never have to visit you ever again.
Merry Christmas your arse, I pray god it's our last, etc
Amoir
And it is on this cheery note we draw the "Amoir's fun adventures in testing the world's and her credit card's patience" to a close. Normal transmission will resume shortly, with a few photos of notable purchases.
I know we don't know each other all that well and I normally wait a few vodkas before settling into the "let Amoir share her forthright opinions about you with a free side of cuss", but it has to be said.
You fucking suck. And the epicentre of your suck resides at Chunking Mansions.
Here is a view similar to what you will see at Chungking Mansions:
Hong Kong, I realise I wanted a cultural experience and to experience all you had to offer but it appears all that was on the menu were TB, randy Parisians who won't take no for an answer, annoying men trying to whisk you away to a curry house/hostel you have no intention of visiting and a cast of characters that even Goya could not paint.
By the way, in answer to your populace: no I do not want any motherfucking jewellry, handbags, watches, electronics, curry, silk 0r tailoring you motherfucking mosquitos of commerce. Also, Hong Kong, get your people to stop staring at me for pairing an Akira dress with Doc Martens and a red felt cloche cap! And sorry about telling one of your people to fuck the fuck off but really after 4 hours of trying to avoid the entreaties of sales people, I became the worst Western tourist imagined.
In short, Hong Kong, fuck you and may I never have to visit you ever again.
Merry Christmas your arse, I pray god it's our last, etc
Amoir
And it is on this cheery note we draw the "Amoir's fun adventures in testing the world's and her credit card's patience" to a close. Normal transmission will resume shortly, with a few photos of notable purchases.
Tatami'd
The highs of Amsterdam dictated I needed a soft space to fall before home and Osaka will always be that place. I made my way from the airport (after the most polite bag search ever) to Shinsekai, my most beloved spot in the world, and crashed on the tatami of my tiny room.
On waking, I skittered about my favourite streets and lanes, pausing to eat takoyaki, buy little tschokes from a roadside stallholder and peer in windows before sitting down to eat a pancake dinner in a strange little cafe that rivalled Pellegrinis in its refusal to redecorate.
Osaka is still as beautiful as remembered. The cooing of the ladies on the train PA is still soothing. I still knew my way around, my favourite diners were still open and still serving my favourite food. The people still blush and smile without guile.
And the shopping is still amazing. I could spend my yearly salary and still not have my fill - forgetting how heady that first 24 hours of shopping is in Japan. From roadside trash vendor to boutique to department store, I would (and did) happily test the limits of my credit history.
For example, I fell utterly in love with the randoseru, a leather backpack for Japanese primary school students.
This is a randoseru:
For those unaware of the Amoir love stakes, here it is presented as a prioritised list:
This lead to much embarrassment and me exiting stage right to console myself with a pork cutlet sandwich while thinking the Seagull doesn't need a bag worth more than her mother's combined bag collection multiplied by oh, I don't know, infinity. But if you see me in an ice-filled bathtub, missing a kidney and clutching onto a randoseru, you'll know what's happened.
On waking, I skittered about my favourite streets and lanes, pausing to eat takoyaki, buy little tschokes from a roadside stallholder and peer in windows before sitting down to eat a pancake dinner in a strange little cafe that rivalled Pellegrinis in its refusal to redecorate.
Osaka is still as beautiful as remembered. The cooing of the ladies on the train PA is still soothing. I still knew my way around, my favourite diners were still open and still serving my favourite food. The people still blush and smile without guile.
And the shopping is still amazing. I could spend my yearly salary and still not have my fill - forgetting how heady that first 24 hours of shopping is in Japan. From roadside trash vendor to boutique to department store, I would (and did) happily test the limits of my credit history.
For example, I fell utterly in love with the randoseru, a leather backpack for Japanese primary school students.
This is a randoseru:
For those unaware of the Amoir love stakes, here it is presented as a prioritised list:
- Randoseru
- Smoking
- Mashed Potato
- Dubliner vs Paul Banks in death match
- Sitting
- Butter
- Godzilla
- Misc. carbohydrates
- Zombies
This lead to much embarrassment and me exiting stage right to console myself with a pork cutlet sandwich while thinking the Seagull doesn't need a bag worth more than her mother's combined bag collection multiplied by oh, I don't know, infinity. But if you see me in an ice-filled bathtub, missing a kidney and clutching onto a randoseru, you'll know what's happened.
Monday, December 15, 2008
How to confuse Amoir
Buying croissants. In a CAN.
No. Seriously.
Thankfully the delectable Sarah has photographic evidence from her own experience (a worthy blog to add to your subscriptions). I was too shocked to take photos when I saw them.
I was roundly mocked by the Dub and our gracious host for my reaction. I don't think they've ever seen anyone lose it over the sight of croissants in a motherfucking CAN. Even Samuel L. Jackson would come out with a motherfucking monologue about its outrageousness. Then again, they didn't have much to work with on their mock-list (1. Silly accent, 2. cooing at pretty streetscapes, 3. croissants in a MOTHERFUCKING can).
Now I want a croissant. Filled with bacon.
*claps hands imperiously*
*remains hungry*
No. Seriously.
Thankfully the delectable Sarah has photographic evidence from her own experience (a worthy blog to add to your subscriptions). I was too shocked to take photos when I saw them.
I was roundly mocked by the Dub and our gracious host for my reaction. I don't think they've ever seen anyone lose it over the sight of croissants in a motherfucking CAN. Even Samuel L. Jackson would come out with a motherfucking monologue about its outrageousness. Then again, they didn't have much to work with on their mock-list (1. Silly accent, 2. cooing at pretty streetscapes, 3. croissants in a MOTHERFUCKING can).
Now I want a croissant. Filled with bacon.
*claps hands imperiously*
*remains hungry*
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Frieking cold in the Netherlands
I was rocking on the Dubliner's dime to Eindhoven for an impromptu itinerary addition to catch up with friends, meet new people and freeze my ass off. Oh, and possibly the most amazing weekend of my existence.
If there is one thing I learned during my sojourn, it is that the Intoxicating Dubliner and I have exceedingly different traveling styles. I'm all about the meander, the gambol and slow walk and he -- bless -- is all about the manic Amazing Race style scramble, running for trains, muttering about queues and schedules. In short, things that do not exist in the Amoiroverse (this would explain his inquiry one night as to whether I were Oscar or Felix. The Answer? Totally Oscar.)
The morning after our arrival in a tiny, gorgeous town called Eindhoven, we reached Amsterdam by train, a journey that comprised our usual dialogue (see, hot oil torture as banter technique) and violence. After wandering the streets and eating dinner, we caught a bus to Villa Friekens, a squat north of Amsterdam and home to some amazing creativity as part of the "Paint & Beer" session.
You skitter delicately to the door where a distant Cthulu-esque persistent drumbeat beckons. Passing by discarded cars, caravans and furniture, you feel the empty cold so endemic to large spaces and begin to notice the colour. Tendrils and splashes and blotches trailing up the walls. Tags and pieces thrown against the brick and whatever object is moored nearby. Traipsing by some guys getting to work, the music gets louder and you cross the threshold into this:
This is what we call heaven, Amoir-style.
Some of the most amazing graffers I've ever wanted to witness working and meet were inside and they were deliciously humble, kind and approachable. We wandered around, making good use of the 1 euro beers to keep warm and photographed all we could as some amazing pieces unfurled.
After painting, we retreated into the club and warmed ourselves with Irish Coffee and cheese & onion tostis while sitting in a caravan inside the club as dogs and their owners danced and painters retired after a hard day and evening of exuberance.
The following day, we headed out with our friends and painted on walls. It was even colder than the night before but we were indulged with cups of tea and coffee and gorgeous soup as the rain fell.
That night we rested, curled into one another, farewelling and thanking and feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all. It was simultaneously the best and worst night of my life.
If there is one thing I learned during my sojourn, it is that the Intoxicating Dubliner and I have exceedingly different traveling styles. I'm all about the meander, the gambol and slow walk and he -- bless -- is all about the manic Amazing Race style scramble, running for trains, muttering about queues and schedules. In short, things that do not exist in the Amoiroverse (this would explain his inquiry one night as to whether I were Oscar or Felix. The Answer? Totally Oscar.)
The morning after our arrival in a tiny, gorgeous town called Eindhoven, we reached Amsterdam by train, a journey that comprised our usual dialogue (see, hot oil torture as banter technique) and violence. After wandering the streets and eating dinner, we caught a bus to Villa Friekens, a squat north of Amsterdam and home to some amazing creativity as part of the "Paint & Beer" session.
You skitter delicately to the door where a distant Cthulu-esque persistent drumbeat beckons. Passing by discarded cars, caravans and furniture, you feel the empty cold so endemic to large spaces and begin to notice the colour. Tendrils and splashes and blotches trailing up the walls. Tags and pieces thrown against the brick and whatever object is moored nearby. Traipsing by some guys getting to work, the music gets louder and you cross the threshold into this:
This is what we call heaven, Amoir-style.
Some of the most amazing graffers I've ever wanted to witness working and meet were inside and they were deliciously humble, kind and approachable. We wandered around, making good use of the 1 euro beers to keep warm and photographed all we could as some amazing pieces unfurled.
After painting, we retreated into the club and warmed ourselves with Irish Coffee and cheese & onion tostis while sitting in a caravan inside the club as dogs and their owners danced and painters retired after a hard day and evening of exuberance.
The following day, we headed out with our friends and painted on walls. It was even colder than the night before but we were indulged with cups of tea and coffee and gorgeous soup as the rain fell.
That night we rested, curled into one another, farewelling and thanking and feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all. It was simultaneously the best and worst night of my life.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Amoir's handy notes on how to work out if you're back in Australia
Amsterdam Customs Official: Your eyes are so beautiful. Amazing. All over. You're gorgeous.
Some old Australian fucker at Sydney airport whispering into my ear not an hour into touchdown: Freak
Man, I am so not popular with Australian men.
Sad to be home but happy to celebrate with a cleansing latte at Pellegrinis, even happier at the prospect of seeing the Seagull again once the jetlag dissipates.
More to come. Swears. It's just that doing 5 countries in 5 days has left me emptier than an episode of the Hills.
Some old Australian fucker at Sydney airport whispering into my ear not an hour into touchdown: Freak
Man, I am so not popular with Australian men.
Sad to be home but happy to celebrate with a cleansing latte at Pellegrinis, even happier at the prospect of seeing the Seagull again once the jetlag dissipates.
More to come. Swears. It's just that doing 5 countries in 5 days has left me emptier than an episode of the Hills.
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