Mascarpone, bar fights, Old Spice

If you're wondering why there's been a delay in posts it's because I've been busy. I've been writing a screenplay. It's about an ancient Roman gladiator who is so good at fighting that he wins in situations where you don't expect him to win, but then he dies at the very end but it's not so sad because he gets to be with his wife and son again. I'm not really sure yet what I'm going to call it. Anyway, having to go without blogs isn't an excuse for that mood you've been in all week. You should really get up and do something once in a while. Why don't you go out for a walk? Who is Jane?

For the first time ever I have a backlog of keywords. Today's keywords are from my pal Jesse and I have some more from Samantha who is probably starting to think I don't care for her anymore because I am keeping the mystique by not replying to her email. It has been some months since we last blogged and in that time we've been massively productive in other ways. The most exciting development in my life is that I now have a pair of pyjamas with sea horses on them. You can't see them but I plan to describe them in an upcoming post.

I have a minor personal philosophy that it is better to think economically rather than think too much. So when my boss mentioned to me that I should get some new cake recipes, I already had Jesse's keywords in the back of my mind. The whole thing sparked up a new wave of guilt about not blogging, starting a cumulative effect that places me here now at my Macbook with a spicy cake in the oven, mascarpone in the fridge. From the outside, this is a nice picture and it smells quite nice too. The reality is far from the retrospective domestic idyll you are imagining--it is  messy and shameful. The last time this happened I just had to go out and take it out on somebody. In Perth the locals seem to favour the old glassing technique but here I feel things are a bit more sophisticated. I know one guy dealt with it by cutting off his ears but I don't really think I want to go that far just yet.

The keywords, incidentally, are pretty much in keeping with Jesse's interests. It's almost like how if I were to choose three keywords they would probably be: watermelon, my hair colour and the length of my hair. Not funny? Shut up. Thanks for reading, everyone. We love you. It's not your fault that you had a distant father and you're not sure how to love us back. We will wait patiently for you to let us in. showmeyourswagger@gmail.com.

Tattoos, harmonica, merlot

I am writing this entry with my prodding stick. I'm waiting for someone to remember where I live so they can lever me out of bed and serve me some more pavlova and beetroot. For the reference of my many international readers, Australian Christmasses are a massive eating endurance exercise where those who don't like crayfish have to make do with six different kinds of cheese served on a pine tree-shaped bed of potato salad garnished with little ham mustard rosettes. Since interest in the Catholicism thing has waned somewhat, Australians seem to be filling the emotional void with food and it's the first time that's ever worked out for anybody ever. So, here I am writing this in bed, living off my body fat.

Today's keywords were given to us by Yasmin, a Bob Dylan fancier, purveyor of modern post-folk culture, main force in the Seoul based hipster hunting project and important supporting character in the story of my life who is due to make a long-awaited cameo quite soon.

I've actually been thinking about tattoos quite a bit recently. Inspired by Yasmin's tattoo of an obscure literary reference, I've been thinking about getting my own. It has to be more obscure than hers though. When I think seriously about something I usually just go straight to a Tumblr search because my attention span is too short for Google. On Tumblr I skip through reams of thinspiration photos, hair shots, Glee GIFS and photos of dudes in their dorm bathrooms laughing at something together until I find what I'm looking for. This is how I found my treasured collection of people with animal heads. Any publishing companies interested in that can contact me via the below email address.

Now I have to talk about harmonicas. To be honest, I'm a bit reluctant to write about harmonicas and as you can see I have made no attempt to link that idea with the one about tattoos. The only way I can think to do it is by writing about Bob Dylan and I don't really want to give him that satisfaction. If you ask me, he lost his right to be in focus on my blog when he blocked all his videos on Youtube. As if by allowing people to listen to his music for free is going to somehow rob him of his fancy cowboy hats and gold-plated cuban heels. So no quips about harmonicas on this blog. What of that? If Bob can be a diva then so can I.

Yasmin's last keyword was merlot and since it's been far too hot recently to even think about drinking murky liquid even if it is for research purposes, I asked my stylish assistant about her thoughts. Instantly she guessed who the keywords came from. It's true, Yasmin really is all about tattoos, harmonicas and merlot. People who don't know Yasmin will be imagining a heavily inked busker, trussed up with drums on her back and cymbals on her spurs so she plays music when she walks. She has red wine lip every day of the week, in fact it's tattooed on. Because of all the percussion items on her clothing she is going to have trouble getting on the plane to Australia so is currently seeking special written permission from the government.

None of this is even close to reality. In truth, Yasmin only plays one instrument. Below is a picture of her walking down Brunswick Street in Melbourne.

If nobody emails us this week with three keywords we will have to think of our own and they will be really boring probably. You'd better email us on showmeyourswagger@gmail.com.

dinosaurs, Aesop Rock, pizza

When I sit at my artistically chaotic writing bench, stiff whiskey in one hand and feeling like a dangerously charming lady version of Hemmingway, I can usually think of a few things to write within a couple of minutes. If I'm feeling uninspired I might check my blog stats and have a giggle at the places my readers live (Romania? Really? That's a thing?) and what they typed into Google to find me (show me how to swagger (!)). I find it funny because I always assume people find me by accident and the only people that actually read my blog are people who pretty much just want to make sure I haven't written anything obnoxious about them. So at midnight on Saturday when I was Google-stalking myself I noticed in my inbox a two-week old email from someone called Nick who reads my blog and is not my dad or otherwise obligated to read what I write. Today's blog is dedicated to Nick in lieu of a nice big date and muesli slice with a ribbon around it as thanks for being a reader. I should probably apologise to him because now I know that somebody might read this, I'm really nervous and a bit crampy and I think my ear infection has maybe started to come back. I doubt Hemmingway had to deal with this kind of neuroticism.

Nick's keywords made me think of Chadchad, an uberhipster who lives in Seoul and makes necklaces out of plastic dinosaurs and probably listens to a lot of Aesop Rock. When I lived in Korea we went to Seoul a few times specifically to stalk Chadchad but we never so much as sighted him, even though we camped out at all the likely scenes. You would think Chadchad would have been drawn to something like a fancy party thrown for Doc Martens, but apparently not. I always felt like he was kind of an enigma, maybe the kind of person who only lives on the internet and doesn't have a phone number or a facebook and plans his social life with only the use of Tumblr. The kind of person that knows well how to use the self-timer on his camera for the sole purpose of doing hotel bed jumping photos.

Speaking of things in Korea, and because I now shall address the topic of pizza, I want to share with you the story of the greatest pizza I ever ate. I can't say it didn't happen more than once, but the first time was more magical than the others because it came as a surprise. In Korea, if you order a plain pizza or a pizza with just cheese, it will come with honey which you can use at your discretion. But who can be discreet with things like that? I certainly wasn't. Do it. Try it now, at home.

This week I turn 26 so we are going to to Northbridge, which is rad now. It used to be all lunch bars and noodle houses and a few pubs where it was known punters were not adverse to the old 4am glassing. There I was once propositioned by a homeless man and later the same week I was stopped by a couple having a drunken brawl so that the woman could show me pictures of her newborn baby. Also, after Friday I will be unemployed again so there will be many more blogs to come.

We are always waiting for your keywords. Why not write us an email now? Just choose any words--anything you can think of. Email them to us. Not only will you receive my writing of goodness, but my resident artist and non-intimate life partner will use the words to make a picture that you can print out and  put on all the walls of your house to create a unique John Malkovich type living space.

Teddy bears, oil paint, potatoes

This week I had a dream that I could teleport to Toronto. I haven't heard many people speaking enthusiastically about Toronto but I have some friends who live there so I would really like to teleport there anyway. My friend Carly lives there. A few days ago I saw someone who looked a lot like Carly but then I realised that it could not possibly have been her because I think if she was coming here she would have let me know rather than just wander around Westfield looking at tights. I miss my friends. Yesterday my friend Anna asked me how I knew that Kanye did a weak live show and I said it was because I have some friends from North America who told me. I heard myself say it and it sounded a bit unfamiliar and strange so I wouldn't blame Anna if she didn't believe me. North America is like, really far away from here.

The three keywords for this entry came from Carly. I don't think they are really keywords. I think Carly just had these three things on her desk at the time she wrote to me. It makes me wonder what she was doing at the time. I figure she was working out the blocking for her cooking show. It's a bit of an underground production, heavily influenced by Dali, where the hosts are given a series of objects and encouraged to meditate without sleep until they have produced something that is either tasty or thought-provoking. It's a brave project but I hope Carly does well at it; I know I'll be tuning in.

This week we have been applying for houses in Melbourne and it's as difficult as I imagine it would be to make a delicious meatloaf out of sand and old barbies. There are some wonderful houses in the city but I think there are also some wonderful people applying for them. There are people applying to these places who don't spend all their free time tapping witticisms into their macbooks along with accompanying artistic mashups. I feel like we should maybe stop writing that on the applications. On the other hand, everyone needs a schtick, and if Gene Simmons can get a slot on prime-time TV sans makeup then I have hope that I will one day be able to lean out of the window of my renovated Carlton townhouse and order a soy cappucino by simply calling out to the cafe across the road.

As usual if you have keywords please email us on showmeyourswagger@gmail.com. Have a great Christmas and wherever you are, think of me at the family dining table, party hat on, doing what my sister would describe as 'getting my drink on' and tucking into a plate of purple mash and stuffing.

Quokkas, jumpers, mayonnaise

If I told you there were was an island near Perth that is overrun with little brown wallabies of a variety that lived nowhere else in the world, would you believe me? How about if I told you they had little t-rex arms? Would you believe me if I told you it's Australia's secret shame and nobody ever goes there because they once ate a baby? They live in spinifex grass, make money by inventing subtly risque jingles for insurance commercials and eat nothing but bratwurst. Except for that one time.

There is now six and a bit weeks until I have to say goodbye to my leggings and put on some proper pants for my move over to the big smoke, Melbourne city. Melbourne is the hipster capital of the world, the kind of place where if you can make a good sketch of a Holga camera dangling off a fixed-gear bike in your little black moleskine notebook, you're going to make it. It's down at the very bottom of Australia and right on the other side, so not only is it very far away but it's also very cold a lot of the time. To make up for the terrible weather, Melbourne provides a vastly greater supply of adorable Cosby sweaters. In fact, Melbourne is where the Coogi was born before continuing on to great fame on Biggie's back. Unique to the area are horse face knits and the lesser known wattle with a pair of parrots--the collector's holy grail.

My plans in Melbourne are many. I would like to write a book. So far my notes detail the story about a cook who is obsessed with finding out how much mayonaise a person can eat before they realise they can never eat it, see it or think about it ever again. I'm thinking about changing it to pumpkin because I don't like mayonaise but I really, really like pumpkin. The problem is, though, that you can actually eat quite a lot of pumpkin before you start feeling sick. I have some work to do.

The animals I was describing earlier are called quokkas and they are one of Australia's most interesting and naturally preserved species of marsupial. They can be found only on Rottnest Island off Perth and in my next door neighbour's aviary.

I just want to make it clear to my readers that I provide my own three keywords for each of these blog posts but I am really not an imaginative writer (see the paragraph about mayonaise, above) so I am asking you to provide them for me. Just write down three words and email them to showmeyourswagger@gmail.com. Also, if you have ever eaten a whole lot of mayonaise and know what happens, let me know. Who knows, you might see a royalty cheque or two, or an invitation to my launch party. I will at least give you free lifetime admission to my Graceland-style mansion.

The Sopranos, heat, Goop

My favourite person right now is Carmela Soprano. Carmela uses the term 'DNA' as a verb and wears a lot of high-waisted camel coolots yet she is the lady that I wish one day to be. The ultimate WAG, Carmela very being is wry and disapproving and she manages to express distain by simply rattling her thousand links of gold jewellery. Carmela will go to the salon for a facial in the middle of the day and there contract a whim which will cause her to refurbish her entire house. If her husband has a problem with it she will threaten to cut off his genitals.

Carmela can usually be found in her kitchen in workout gear with great hair, like a Cluedo character. She doesn't really seem to ever eat or work out, though. My attractive assistant, illustrator and housemate says this is because Carmela has the Armani gene. The Armani gene allows Carmela to consume nothing but gelato and grenache and still be healthy. I make the point because I recently remembered that Show me your Swagger is meant to be a lifestyle blog and I was going to write about how to look like you have the Armani gene, but I realised I myself only have the Target Free Fusion gene and nobody really wants that. Besides, if you're reading this you're probably already quite attractive. We only let attractive people read our blog.

Maybe I'm selling myself short. Maybe I'm a little more stylish than the TFF gene. Maybe it's more like the Stella McCartney gene, but without the fierce ponytail thing she does. I think Stella is nice looking but that hairstyle makes her look like a happy-drunk albino dolphin.

I still haven't escaped the fact that I promised you a lifestyle blog and I'm not really delivering, so I looked at Gweneth Paltrow's website Goop for an idea. The website is minimalist yet expensive-looking, like an offcut of bamboo wrapped in hand-printed typing paper. It's the kind of site that would advise you to do six hours of yoga while wearing an inexplicably expensive home-made face mask. I found a newsletter on the website called 'How to do your own makeup for a day and night'. Having to do my own make up has never been a problem for me so I thought I'd be qualified to write a better version of her article which I didn't read. On the other hand it's 35 degrees outside and my face dripping off into my coffee and I feel like I sort of failed at showing up Goop because I'm not seated at a sanded-back white 1950s era writing desk in front of sweeping ocean views and wearing loafers while my retired yet beloved Portugese au pair brews iced tea in the breakfast nook. I'm pretty good at other things though. I can wear leggings as pants even though I have switched to short shorts for the summer. If you would like advice on this please email me at showmeyourswagger@gmail.com.

Bike, pelican, magpie

I should probably address the three-week delay on this post. I've got no interesting excuses. I'd like to be able to say I was writing a screenplay, but everyone knows it only takes two weeks to write a screenplay so I can't use that. The truth is, I've been working a lot. I like my job because I don't really have to talk to people and I am allowed to wear leggings as pants. I've been okay with this ever since I found out that my city is technically in a rural area according to the immigration department of Canada, and in a rural town you can wear leggings as pants and nobody ever sees you but the sheep. It also makes my lunch-hour lunges much more enjoyable. Anyway, here I am.

We have been cycling around a lot this week. It's good to be back on the road, though it's harder to heckle pedestrians without access to a good, loud car horn. On Saturday I cycled past a young stud doing a walk of shame, but as I got close enough to see his maroon brogues I realised he was just a hipster with sore dancing feet and I muddled up my heckle at the eleventh hour. I spent that afternoon pining for my Hyundai.

I've been heckled in return while cycling, as well. Heaving up a big hill, I was cheered on by a geeky highschooler who had just stepped off the bus. As I looked back on her from the top of the hill she was applauding me. Later while riding along a narrow walkway, I slowed down for a four year old kid who stood purposefully in my path. The kid stopped me, complemented my bike and then asked a series of probing questions about its functions. Finally she rang the bell and I was allowed to go on.

There is one pretty massive benefit to cycling everywhere, though. You can see things that happen in nature. Things that probably happen every day but are by no means unimpressive. Things like a magpie fighting a pelican.

Speaking of hipsters, Hyundais and rad things in nature, I want to draw some attention to my friend Fergal who is growing a moustache for Movember. I used to kind of think that Movember was a bit stupid but that was before I hit puberty. Now, the sight of a moustache makes me feel alternatley inferior and giddy. I feel the only analogy I can use to describe this feeling is the image of the magpie and the pelican. Imagine the pelican is Mickey Rourke and the pelican is Obama. The magpie (Obama) is pretty good--witty and sharp, with a fine collection of suits. He's also sort of down with the vernacular of youth culture, which makes him seem like he's only accepted the job as being 'the man' so he can get his bit heard. Despite all this, he's not Mickey Rourke, the pelican.

In the fight, Mickey Rourke was checking out his span in the centre of a field when Obama came up to remind him whose patch he was on. Mickey Rourke stretched out his neck and showed off his large excess skin folds. I guess in bird language that means 'I don't want to eat your babies'. It also could have meant 'I'm going to eat your babies' but Mickey Rourke seemed pretty nonchalant so I doubt it. I guess Obama didn't like it anyway because he kept swooping. Eventually Mickey Rourke flew away. He still seemed pretty blaze.

It has been a vivid few weeks. More again soon. If you would like to suggest any keywords please email us at showmeyourswagger@gmail.com. Finally, if you have any suggestions as to how to make our blog not look like the website for the North Korean government, that would also be pretty special for us.

Swedish women, baklava, boyfriends.

Before I get started on this week's post, I just want to do some shout outs to some special people.

The first is to my BFF, housemate and illustrative assistant who did a beautiful job of welcoming some new neighbours this week when she fell into a spontaneous embrace with a naked mannequin she was carrying out to the backyard. I'd just like to mention here that both she and myself are single. Ideally we are looking for boyfriends with yachts but we will also consider Tommy Hilfiger boating loafers or just really excellent backpack decals.

Anyway, the way we work is that when I write the blog, I give three keywords to her and she scurries off to her imagine space and comes up with a picture. That's how we work this thing.

Now that business is seen to, here's my second shout out. This nod goes to a friend I made on my recent sojourn in Turkey. Much like English tradition calls for a person who makes anvils to be called Smith, a person who makes bread to be called Baker and so on, I like to think of my restaurateur friend as Baklava. We met Baklava one night on a search for somewhere cheap to eat. In Istanbul, many restaurant owners stand outside their establishments complimenting people in order to strike up a chat and eventually invite them in for a meal. It's important for them to have an interesting opening line, so we heard ice-breakers like 'hey, beautiful', 'come in, I just want to talk' and 'are you Swedish?' as we passed.

It got me wondering: what happens after the introductions? Imagine you stop for a while to discuss how you are in fact Swedish, and how could he tell? What does he 'just want to talk' about? I was thinking about this when we approached Baklava's place and I was in a mood to draw out a conversation as long as possible. When we met him, he was radiating with serene hostfulness and trying to guess our nationalities. When we could draw that game out no longer, he showed us a few of his tables. They all looked fine, to be honest, but I pointed to a table where an adult couple were awkwardly forking around in their shish kebabs under the hawk-eyes of a pair of prospective in-laws. 'I want to sit there,' I said. 'We can wait'.

Baklava looked into my eyes and recognised his challenge. He swished us off the street and there was a brief silence as he racked his brain for interesting topics on which he could schmooze us. This weak start almost gave us permission to wander off in boredom like cows that had forgotten they already had their mouths full of grass, but suddenly Baklava was in gear. 'You see, I thought you were Swedish at first...'

I had picked my competitor badly--he was pretty much the Fred Astaire of sparking pre-dinner conversation.  He was so good he had us flirting with him without even realising it. I can't clearly remember what he said due to my Freudian survival strategy of forgetting the details of my failures, but I remember being flattered into sharing secrets that I probably wouldn't have even given my own mother. "I ate sixteen pieces of Turkish delight today," was something that I would have been ashamed to say aloud to anyone but the charming Baklava. "I was convinced all ancient Romans were midgets so I asked my tour guide why the buildings were so big". As the awkward family started feebly poking the skin of their rice pudding, I noticed an unmistakable shine on Baklava's brow. It was the shine awarded by the agony of a battle hard won.

I stepped out of the ring when an elderly English woman sauntered up to greet us. Baklava seemed to know her well and they shared an in-joke about tea that made me feel weird and uncomfortable. A pass or fail grade had been given at the pudding table and we were shown to our new places, where we spent the night ham-acting the dinner banter whenever our so-called friend was within earshot.

Parts of this story are somewhat true. Which brings me to the subject of today's post. Baklava. Glorious, delicious baklava. Thanks for reading; hope y'all can find something to do with the rest of your day at work.

Let's talk about why you're here.

Picture this: you’re on your ultimate dream date. You can’t have Alexander Skarsgård, he’s mine. How about a young John Cusack? He’s more your type. I know you’re into the droopy eyes thing. You’re into the ones who look like they wouldn’t survive in the wild, if you know what I mean. I think you’d be at the rollerdrome because, well, it’s John Cusack’s dream date too. Not his ultimate one, though.

You’ve just finished re-telling that story about the time you stayed up until midnight to steal a geranium clipping from your elderly neighbor’s front garden. You think this naughty little anecdote would have shown off your alluring wild side, but John misheard the finale and you had to repeat yourself three times and by the time he finally got it he kinda just pretended to understand and now you have to think of something new to talk about really quick because otherwise he will notice that you just accidentally knocked his Snickers into his frozen Coke. You’re having trouble thinking though, because you’re caught up wondering if you had ever so slightly mispronounced the word ‘propagate’.

It’s for situations like these that we have started this blog. Widely known as the “Grateful Dead of lifestyle blogging”, Show me your Swagger covers all areas of fashion, health and Alexander Skarsgård. Hopefully if your third choice of dream dates ever deigns to return one of your calls, you’ll have something to say on the phone.

So keep reading. Please.