Wednesday, May 10

On May's Issue Of Catalyst

The Misfit

“I am absolutely ill-qualified to give fashion advice. An unfortunate by-product of horny hippie parents, I remember the tightly rolled shorts in the 70s, witnessed the big cauliflower hairdos in the 80s, and laughed at grunge rockers wannabes in the 90s. Fast forward to 2006. Melburnians are terrible dressers. This is why.”

By John ‘adrock2xander’ Ng

Last month, I talked about the wristbands. This month, the spotlight falls on one of wristbands’ mutations.

It wasn’t until too long ago that doing a good cause for a charitable or health organisation was seen as a gracious and oh-so-cool thing to do. Of course, nobody thought that Lance Armstrong would survive balls cancer and unintentionally start a fashion trend that ranks as the first fashion disaster of the 21st Century. Oh hold on, it’s Melbourne. I’d say, 15th fashion disaster.

If you’re still clueless to what I’m getting at, you’ve either been stuck under a giant cancerous scab or have been colour blind for the last 2 years. I’m talking about those fanciful looking charity wristbands.

Ahhh, charity wristbands. Where shall I begin? Perhaps it’s the colour. The shocking hues, the array of luminescent shades or is it the rubber imprints with the fake charity names?

There’s only one true way to accessorise like Gianni Versace (God save his soul). And that’s leather wristbands.

I blame Lance Armstrong. He may be a champion on two wheels and balls, but he lacks foresight. I mean, there’re other ways to show your support for *insert obligatory cancer here*. Whatever happened to the good old fashioned Certificate of Appreciation? Just like how it is after you spend an hour, reclining on a chair, watching your blood go upstream into a bag.

Or a Letter of Commendation? After all it takes balls (pardon the pun) to give your time and energy to the good of civic service.

But a rubber wristband? I’m dismayed. What were his Public Relations cronies doing? Someone ought to fire them.

I reckon Melbourne’s been afflicted with the Charity Wristband Disease. Such a small, trivial piece of itemised jewellery, and somehow put on the pedestal with such acclaim – it’s like a chef winning Best Chef after applying mayonnaise in a cheeseburger. Yes, the analogy is poor, but you get the picture.

I can see the appeal of the charity wristband – you’re telling everyone out there that you’re a cool bloke with a heart of gold. But who are you trying to convince? That you’re Mr Do-Goody philanthropist? Or do you just want to blend in with others, because everyone else is wearing it? That’s not cool, that’s just not having the guts to be genuinely different. Now that’s cool. Oh wait, have I hurt your feelings?

The truth hurts. I know what it’s like to fit in with others. While everyone was smoking cigarettes and having sex at tender ages, I was smoking cigarettes and masturbating to porn. The truth is, I couldn’t score a date to save my life. I got my rocks off inflatable dolls. Toilet rolls with moist paper towels became my best friends. I had problems finding female genitalia. I guess I can say that although I was a virgin, I was cool coz I smoked, no?

NO! Smoking is not cool! So are charity wristbands! In fact, the next time you slip into those ugly add-ons, tell yourself that you’re really smoking a cigarette.



I’d rather you give cash to the organisation than buy the stupid wristbands. Heck, I’d GIVE you the cash. It’s a fad. 10 years down the road, you’ll grimace and moan at those yesteryears when you posed with the wristbands like the health ambassador you were.

There’s only one thing worse than a charity wristband that’s gone multi-platinum. That’s popped collars.

But that, is another story.

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