In some respects, our cities were never designed to take the abuse we masses dole out. No Londoner in 1805 had any idea that the city would become one of the largest in the world, giving birth to subculture after subculture from punk in its many forms — steam punk, cyber punk, punk rock, among others — to the loudest drag queens on the hardest drugs to old ladies in big red hats drinking tea. While Spaniards have always been braced for late night tapas and sangria, Barcelona’s walkways have not. Our major capitals have fared surprisingly well through the rapid and heavy-handed expansion process the industrial revolution has facilitated, and cities like Rome have flourished under innovative urban planning and a touch of civil technology. It many cases, even the most simple aspects of an urban centre can become inseparable from the marks of its nearly-failed attempts at expansion. Can we imagine Chicago or New York without the L or the F trains? And what would Venice look like without its gondola rides down maze-like canals? These charms, hodgepodges of new and old, developed and undeveloped, are what give each city a face.

Yet how and when these characters come to be is an elusive tell. Planned cities like Canberra and Washington DC feel wrong in many ways, though they are specifically designed to support an urban, culturally rich society. Why? Because a city doesn’t feel sufficiently big without misfits, a touch of grit, and architectural accidents. It wouldn’t feel like home if there wasn’t constantly nagging construction noises and failing public service campaigns. Find me a world city without homeless people and you haven’t really found yourself a world city. Most metropolitan networks can be boiled down to one or two great cultural contributions alongside one or two major issues, issues that are constantly changing and contributions that are constantly evolving.

It’s always been one of those global clichés for the small town hero to make it in the big city. No one runs away from the city to live in a small town, just as no one runs away from the circus to be an accountant. This mythos is like tinder to the urban culture. Wherever the inevitable diversity and masses of people with enough convenience to warrant free time set in to a society, that’s when the interesting stuff starts happening. Essentially, once you’ve got a wrong side of the tracks to cross, out comes art and innovation and new movements, though admittedly the more intriguing aspects of urban culture do come out of the woodwork along with the crazies, though, contrary to popular opinion, not necessarily along with higher crime rates. Of course not all urban culture comes from the rougher edges of the city; quite a good deal of culture seeps out from the bourgeois centres as well. It’s the interplay, the tension between high and low, the mere presence of both that captivates me so.

Perhaps this is a highly privileged perspective. After all, not only am I from a large city myself, but one that sat itself in the middle of the giant culture clash that is America. During my time in Tokyo I noticed that Japanese were cleaner, more efficient, more polite, and had (as larger cities tend to) culture in spades. Yet I also noticed that while Japan’s metropolises like Osaka and Kyoto don’t have to deal with multiculturalism and diversity on a daily basis, Western cities like London and Sydney do. I think it is interesting to note that Tokyo has as much its own flair and style and history as Paris or Hong Kong, the city never feels like it’s about to rip itself apart the way more diverse cities like Los Angeles do. In a way living on the unstable edge of a melting pot that’s about to boil over is what makes these places so great. That they’re threatened every day is what makes living in them worthwhile.

Sometimes our urban nucleuses are being threatened by the outside too. Beijing and Shanghai are experiencing an incredible influx of immigrants form rural China that the cities’ infrastructures simply cannot handle. Sometimes our urban oasises are being formed. Once a year a full fledged city complete with public works is created in Black Rock, Nevada just for the hell of it. I’ve gone from living in a city of 4 million people to 10 million to 13 million to 1 million and over again. And here I am, in the most urban country (percentage wise) in the world, and all I can think about is how much I miss urban culture.

There’s something about being able to become one of the nameless faces in a throng waiting to cross the street, or having the ability to slip in somewhere unnoticed, to get truly lost in a room full of people at a somewhere rather than the empty space of a nowhere. I miss the space distinct urban cultures leave for the emergence of roses from rubble: the real painting from graffiti, the real music from beats and breaks, the real parkour from park fences, the real stories and songs and poems from the conversations in coffee shops and bohemian babbling of late-night commuters, in other words the unavoidable distinction that comes from having to be different to survive. I suppose I am so used to experiencing the different that I’ve forgotten what the same is.

Due to the unfortunate nature of federally-owned telecommunications (and thus terrible internet coverage) in Australia, I have not been able to share these experiences with you as of late, but be assured that this uncomfortable situation will soon be remedied, with pictures and videos alike. So never fear, I am alive and well and embarking on as many adventures as my thinning wallet and peeling shoes will allow.

I have now come to fully appreciate how out there Australian style really is. The Australians are brazen in everything from their tattoos to their toenails, and embracing of the different, the unique, the bold. Especially when it comes to haircuts and fashion. It is not unlikely to walk down the street and bump bags with checkered pants and combat boots, stilettos and miniskirts, and thrift-store jackets with home-made beanies alike. This makes Australian cities prime for people-watching (plus they have hundreds of fabulous coffee joints where you can view the action), but it also makes for a cultural unusually accepting of the unique and let’s be honest, the wild as well.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do, right? Well, when in Brisbane, do as Brisbaners do, and the Sydneysiders, and the Melbornese, and the Shunshine Coasties, and so on and so forth. I cut my hair from a terrifyingly long 33cm to…well…

Fairly drastic I know, but I think it’s high time. Change is good, and I am just the sort of low-maintenance gal that has been long overdue for a short ‘do. It’s girly, and fun, and definitely my speed. I’ll be the first to admit that I had a heart attack in the shower when I didn’t have any more than a few centimetres of hair to condition, but other than those few skipped heartbeats, I’ve slipped right into it. I thought it would be harder to get used to, though admittedly I’ve never been one to fuss over my hair all that much. However, it has made me drastically aware that I’ve been living with about 4% of my wardrobe and jewelry (not to mention possessions) for a solid quarter of a year now.

I know I’ve probably been changed so much by my travels that I’m just a fraction of the person I was before I left, but it hardly feels like it. In fact, this feels like the biggest change I’ve had in months. Good thing it’s a welcome one.

Here I am, off in the world to explore every corner I can, and while I pen a word or two about my travels, I’ve yet to say much about my roots. It is a privilege to live in the same city for one’s entire life, if not the same house, and my complex relationship with my hometown undoubtedly springs from the incredible backlog of memories I have sharing the same backdrop: Houston, Texas. Parched and sun-baked, but surprisingly green, the city serves as the stage for so many of my highest and lowest moments. It is the arena in which I played and the world in which I learned all my firsts and many of my lasts. Although returning to my hometown, with its constant change and development (as larger hometowns tend to foster), is an experienced far removed from revisiting my memories of it, I will admit that the skyline is in my blood and the mere vibe of the place is enough to move me to defend its honour like a king’s knight. Perhaps it is to this fondness that I keep returning, regardless of how variant my encounters with the location are. I will always love my hometown, yes, but I will always feel the place I knew so well in my youth no longer exists.

Such is every man, woman, and child’s tragedy, the many losses incurred when youth is no longer an adequate title. There is of course more to the picture for me. My family was never one for scrapbooking, nor one much for family photos once my sister and I were old enough to protest. I, however, have always been a different story. Much like the crafty mother (or in my case, sister) who compiles photo albums and hoards ticket stubs, I have left behind a different image of my past. Ever since I was old enough to hold my grandmother’s video camera I shot little moving pictures of my life. Of course, I never thought much of them until recently, when I’ve been clearing them out. Years later these little snapshot moments of my life hold far greater meaning than they did back then, revealing tactile documentation of what is long gone: houses we have moved out of, friends that are no longer close, stories I once entertained. Without expressly aiming to, I find myself in possession of several years worth of my life immortalised in old VHC-cassette tapes.

I couldn’t very well let all this history and all these memories lay about gathering dust, now could I? While I have work far more recent (and indeed clips far less as well), it’s much harder work to edit something that carries the whispers of your personal past than it is to cut together the average movie. I am still not satisfied with the result, but I believe that in one way or another I have managed to capture the essence, the feel of my hometown in these few videos. Some you may have already seen — one chronicling our time in Galveston, a piece-meal snapshot of my freshman year at college, my days in Tokyo, the failures of my 8-year-old self’s epic film ideals — but none explain my feeling of homecoming as well as this one, begat from a feeling of intense longing, perhaps the first time I have truly missed my home in the first summer I have been completely absent. Enjoy, because maybe you too understand what means is to mourn a place that by all accounts is still around.

Hometown from Leigh Cooper on Vimeo

It’s not an easy thing to be alone, truly alone, and I sincerely doubt that the majority of my countrymen have dared to learn this lesson. And why should they? Happiness is indeed best when shared, and those with the privilege of others to share with seem hardly likely to go about giving it up. However, it takes a certain type of person to wander the path alone, for however briefly. Not only must you be comfortable with the entirety of yourself, as only you can know, but you must also be happy with that same “you” otherwise you will never reach the end intact. And even if you have these, they are no guarantee. It will be difficult in either case, but the reward for taking on solitude is great: a much stronger, wiser, wholer you.

My adjustment to life in Australia has been slow and at times painful. I have wrestled with the transition and a drastically different way of life that I simultaneously yearn for and detest. I entered the country from a life in Tokyo of pure independence and much satisfaction into the structure of university life - both a blessing for its opportunities and safety net, but a curse for its demands and nature. Sure I could go to class every day and eat every meal at the dining hall and meet college buddies at the Regatta every weekend and do just fine, but that was never what I really wanted. Instead I am spending my idle hours walking near-deserted streetscapes in search of culture, experience, something new and enlightening for me to take away from this riverside city. It has been trying and slower than both average and expected, but I am coming around at long last, finally able to be alone.

Of course there are other circumstances at play. In my solitude I am subconsciously asking myself the age old existential question, “what does it mean to live?” Yet I am not just pondering the dilemma in passing, I am deeply invested in the answer as I never have been before. Once the formalities and comforts of my previous life have fallen away, I am left wondering which of them are meaningful to me. Perhaps this feeling of uneasiness has been brought upon by my seniority, the mere proximity I have to making my life in the world alone. Looking back, I have no memories of a time when I was not under the wing of one educational institution or another, so it could be that I have less of an identity independent of academia. Or perhaps I have just grown tired of expending energy on the meaningless or the monotonous. I cannot yet say which is closer to the truth.

It’s not the solidarity of my life here that bothers me. I’m the only one in an empty cinema theatre listening to the same eight French covers on replay monopolise the complex’s airwaves. Like clockwork the film begins on time, even though it’s for an audience of one. It’s not so bad; there is some beauty in a whole world played out for my eyes alone. It’s almost more real when it’s just me. But it is a steep and at times unwanted task I have put upon myself to start at square one once again, with nothing to help me make my way. It is up to me and only me, for better or worse. Surprisingly, this fact is not oppressive in the least. In fact, it’s liberating. It has given me permission to make the decisions others cannot make, and to find my way home without a map, or indeed whether to stop here to make my own home on this foreign soil or to keep heading west in pursuit of something greater.

Perhaps the only way for a place to feel like a true frontier, vulnerable to the twenty-first century manifest destiny is to look at the landscape alone. The pioneers made their cities with their hands, while I am afforded the same freedom by my imagination (and a fairly comprehensive public transit system), but we will both have to deal with the same problems. No, I don’t mean rattlesnake bites and uncles dying of beriberi, but instead how incredibly complex of a feeling it is to have the world at your fingertips, a vast land of opportunity at your disposal, but one without your wife and children, one where you must give up all of your friends and family, and everything you have ever known. The question really is: will I find something in this new land that was worth leaving behind?

1) Back when no one knew what they were doing (i.e., silent films and early stabs at auteurism up until about 1934)

2) Boring bits that established film as legitimate (i.e., the golden era of Hollywood and all the existential art new waves)

3) The mucking about with old bits trying to make new bits (i.e., postmodern horror films, pastiche galore, and the industry from 1970 to as it is today)

This last category is the most important to me, simply because it’s the environ in which I am trying to make my living. There’s a lot going on in this period that doesn’t quite know what to do with itself, and I’m trying to figure out not just where I fit in, but also where the industry as a whole is going. There have been numerous criticisms with the way films are being handled now, and indeed with the type of films that are being made. On the one hand, the rise of the boutique production and the inundation of the independent film has completely changed the way we make and think of movies. The blockbuster is still alive and well, and many of the fresh eyes in the whole system are shaking their fists and claiming it’s all recycled and trite and not close to what we want. Films like Garden State, Juno and Brick are supposed to be telling of our time, yet are constantly in flux as our generation repeatedly regales and then rejects them. Their merit has not yet reached a consensus.

In this world of turmoil then it is perhaps not unlikely that there has been a resurgence of the exploitation flick and a surfacing of the “Cult Classic,” a term generally used as an epithet for “this film sucked when it was made, but because we’ve even heard of it, now it’s cool.” This may sound like the bitter and jaded response of a film student lectured about the evils of Quentin Tarantino one too many times, and in some respects it is. But unlike most such characters, I don’t abhor the drive-in double feature about werewolves, and I certainly don’t despise Tarantino. I think the B movie is entirely misunderstood.

The year is 1974. You take a hammy, over the top, low-brow movie with gaudy ______ (fill in the blank with any of the following: sexuality, nudity, violence, cursing, blood and gore, fetishism, stereotypes, and the list goes on), slap a cheesy title on it and you throw it in theatres. Maybe it’ll make some money, maybe it won’t, but the most you could ever hope for is a niche audience, a bit of box office recognition, and a crossover director. That was then.

This is now. Kids still know all the dialogue to Monty Python’s The Holy Grail by heart, vintage and previously-unheard of sci-fi posters are selling like hot cakes, and you do your grocery shopping on Sunday night because on Saturday the parking lot is blocked of by a queue of cross-dressig nerds waiting in line for the monthly midnight screening of Rocky Horror Picture Show at the cinemaplex next to the supermarket. What happened?

I believe the modern-day phenomenon of embracing the exploitation flick as it was never accepted before is not a random coincidence. Neither is the seemingly puzzling pattern of Hollywood blockbuster smashes that hit close to the home of cult themes everywhere: vampires one year, zombies the next. The industry has been taken by a stream of horror films - first with aliens and then with samurai and now with superheroes. And by industry I should say industries, because even in Eastern markets such as Hong Kong films are experiencing an increased popularity in wuxai-style martial arts films and the obscure brand of humour offered only by Stephen Chow. Pirates vs. ninjas doesn’t even touch the tip of the iceberg. So what is it? What combination of factors has led society to find obscure pop culture references cool rather than corny?

We’ll begin with the economic ones, because I wholeheartedly believe that the economic shifts of the industry from the 1970s to today have a lot more to do with the whole shebang than the culture does. In 1972 the only commercially available format for viewing movies was, well, television (Betamax and VHS weren’t introduced until 1975 and 1976 respectively, laserdisc not until 1978). To give you a sense of setting, Star Wars Episode IV didn’t come out until five years later in 1977, and countertop microwave ovens had only been available for the last five since 1967. Movies were consumed more or less singularly in theatres, thus a film’s box office success was vital to its distribution. In 1972 the media did not overhype box office sales as much as they do today, certainly, but unlike today, theatres were not 24-screen monstrosities and art house cinemas were few and far between. If a film did well in larger cities, it was then pushed to smaller cities. Essentially, teenagers in the midwest depended on senior citizens in Los Angeles and middle-aged moms in New York for variety in their hometown theatres. This is a very different landscape from moviegoing today.

I could talk for days on end about the difference in audience habits over a thirty year span, but that’s not what clinches it for fans of exploitation films. Today, consumers of movies get their fix not from television, and not from the theatres, but from DVD sales. Theatre box office sales are only a slice of the pie, a the majority of film profit overall actually comes directly from DVD sales (and VHS back in the day, and perhaps BlueRay tomorrow) over any other means, including digital download. We’ve moved from the big screen, to the small screen, and now to the laptop screen. The point is, in 1972 the industry could only sustain a small niche market for so long before it was just hemorrhaging money. Enter the low-budget B film. Cheap, easy, and consumable by those with disposable income, namely the ’70s youth. Why did exploitation films survive in the first? Because 1972 was rife with angsty nerds (isn’t every era?) supporting the horror and sci-fi genres, and the African American population that supported Blacksploitation films hardly classify as small potatoes. However, unlike the cinema landscape in 1972, today’s market is nothing but niche. Current audience viewing habits allow for DVD sales to easily double what the film brought in when it premiered, and the advent of a computer on every desktop and internet access at everyone’s fingertips transformed a world of hard-to-find side projects into a realm of nearly mainstream success. Even as late as 1980 if you wanted to find a film like Tampopo or Akira you had to look hard, usually in seedy video shops or college yard sales. Now over 70 different sellers on amazon marketplace offer up these historical gems.

The result? Up go the DVD sales. For starters, the average individual who is likely to own a DVD or two is just as likely to own a modest collection of a dozen or so discs as he or she is to own a collection that ranges in the hundreds. DVDs are cheaper to make and coming out faster, and in multiple editions under the guise of “Extended” or “Director’s Cut” to give re-releases and edge in the market. Moreover, the proliferation of DVDs and popularisation of google (and indeed online authorities on subjects such as films) makes movies that were previously unheard of discoverable, and films that were previously unmarketable in the ’70s and ’80s suddenly marketable. Profit exists now where it did not thirty years ago. Take for example the Grindhouse debacle. If exploitation films had a posterboy, it would be Quentin Tarantino. He just loves them: cheesy horror where cars/plants/anything eat small suburban towns, vampire flicks, low-brow heists, slashers, thrashers, splatter movies and anything that will make you want to vomit in your hand, triad kung fu films, stereotypical westerns, crazy rock-operas, Japanese-derived graphic novels, he loves them all and for this he has earned himself a fanatical following and a name synonymous with graphic violence. So when Tarantino and film buddy Robert Rodriquez decided to actually recreate one of those 1973 horror double-features, you’d think all this niche audience would convene. Grindhouse flopped so terribly in America it was separated into single features abroad in hopes of garnering more fiscal success elsewhere. This is an important finding to note: the exploitation and cult classic film is just as unpopular in the mainstream today as it ever was. Was it a vanity production? Certainly not. Both of Grindhouse’s features — Planet Terror and Deathproof — were successful in their own way. They attained cult status without having to wait for a quarter century to pass to do it. The important difference between a film like The Cars that Ate Paris and the Grindhouse films is that Grindhouse will be seen via DVD and download more than The Cars that Ate Paris or Invasion of the Body Snatchers ever were because the audience still exists, just not in the theatres.

And more of these movies keep getting made. Admittedly some of the success can be attributed to those like Tarantino and Rodriguez and Michel Gondry who hype it up, and have thus popularised the medium into a celebration of the B-movie on the screen today, and also an investment in the B-movies of yesteryear. They wouldn’t be so successful if the genre didn’t make money. It’d be daft to pin it all on economics though. There are certainly cultural parallels that make the resurgence of this material feel destined. The ’70s were a decade dealing with the post-counterculture sentiments of the generation before them, and solidifying its trends towards as many revolutions as it could muster: a sexual revolution, a civil rights liberation, a political upheaval, a sudden and vested interest in pop culture, and a desire to reveal and lay everything bare. We are not so far off from those sentiments ourselves. Riding on the tail end of the hacker revolution and economic boom of the ’90s, today we are making our decade bask in some slippery notion of “the information age” in which today’s generation craves the liberation of information, the freedom of expression, a revolution against politics again, and the rise of rampant individualism. So the roots that pushed exploitation films into existence are repeating themselves. We are just as happy to push the limits of our cultural censorship with South Park in 1999 as If… was in 1969.

For some reason, we are terribly attracted to this initial phase of exploitation. We love pastiche. It’s an unhindered nostalgia for eras the current generation has never known. In a way, exploitation films have a newly birthed cultural status imbibed in them. Films like Juno and High Fidelity propetuate the image that the obscure and the old fashioned are desirable. Sly wit and esoteric music obsessions are hip. Authors like Chuck Klosterman and Douglas Coupland teach us that pop culture trivia is like money in wall street - highly desirable. So in a sense, today’s culture has made room for the exploitation film. Even more surprising, the exploitation film shows up in a number of guises elsewhere, masquerading as a “quality” film. For what is the superhero blockbuster if not a high-budget exploitation film? It’s a flight of fancy, a two-hour CGI version of Tarantino’s beloved corn syrup and red food dye. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen typifies this obsession with the cult icons: dorian grey, vampires, science fiction, and the steampunk era to boot, dabbling in literature, fantasy, comic books, and action film. The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen isn’t the only one either; there have been a series of other large-scale re-envisionings of the 1970 exploitation film that have found much more than a small niche, though they elicit a cult following. Films like Pirates of the Caribbean and Batman and Hostel are all of the same seed leftover from 1968. Our comedies take a page from the book of exploitation films too; how many Ben Stiller or Will Ferrel films are just low-class jabs and toilet humour and over the top costumes not out of place in a film like Car Wash or Blazing Saddles? Shaun of the Dead is just an even lower-rung City of the Living Dead, Good Luck Chuck a twenty-first century stab at Alvin Purple, and Snakes on a Plane a dumbed down version of Shaft.

There are almost as many types of exploitation films as there are screens at The Grove: shock films, biker films, cannibal films, chambara films, slasher flicks, zombie flicks, mondo movies, splatter movies, spaghetti westerns, euroflicks, prison films, martial arts films, propaganda films, stoner films, blaxploitation, sexploitation, ozploitation, and a million other subgenres to include. It is certainly not a unique phenomenon to say the least. The Blair Witch Project, Tokyo Gore Police, Sukiyaki Western Django, they are nothing more than reiterations of what has already been: Dawn of the Dead, Barry McKenzie Holds His Own, Turkey Shoot.

What inspired this long-winded glimpse into the world of exploitation flicks? Well, two things. One, the documentary Not Quite Hollywood left me fearing the world would only hear one side of the skinny of exploitation films: from the men who had lived through the 1970s. I thought someone from the younger generation had to step in and say their bit. The Brisbane International Film Festival is rolling in this weekend, with a special on Horror and special section devoted to the ozsploitation films of the ’70s and ’80s, and while I may not be able to describe the social climate of the era as accurately as someone like Tom O’Regan, I will certainly be able to describe the atmosphere of today with a good deal of accuracy and insight. In summation the shifts in viewing attitudes from public to private exhibition, the industry’s refocusing on niche markets, and the cultural similarities have allowed exploitation films that were overshadowed in the 1970s and 1980s to flourish today both economically and culturally. Of course it’s more than that, isn’t it? There’s something deeper than the face-value of audience tendencies now that really says something about why we’re still watching the same pieces of celluloid so many critics hailed as nothing but rubbish. Perhaps audiences are longing for an elder era of cinema? Perhaps we’re so desensitised by our own society we require the absurdist antics of exploitation filmmaking to reach us? Perhaps we just don’t want to think about it anymore, we just want to watch? This is a discussion for another, equally long-winded diatribe. But it is food for thought.

Although interest in this genre may seem a random and passing trend, I urge you to think about how long exploitation films have been around, and how their popularity has been affected by the passage of time. Perhaps we should be giving less thought to “solving the problem” of B movies and more thought to why it is they are so prevalent. It is a phenomenon that appears founded in more than just a few teenagers in a drive through with some change in their pocket. I believe this is where we draw the line from “films” into “genres.” When a man can make his living and his fame by these criticisably low-brow films, it might be time to reframe our subject.

I recently found a cache of my old music collection, back when it was a fairly reasonable size. I let it play on shuffle for a while, and ran across a few songs I haven’t heard in several years. I know my tastes in music have changed dramatically (as they should refine with age, like a taste for wine or for comedy or for good writing), but I was surprised at how quickly I slipped back into an older mindset. So I let myself take a long trip down memory lane, pulling out a few songs here and there relating to specific memories in my life. It’s funny how something as simple as a song can bring you back somewhere so quickly.

I’ve run across articles or films or albums that talk about places I’ve been or things I’ve done. The NYTimes had a piece about the International Thespian Society I once worked so hard to attend. Of course, I haven’t been in four years, but my memories were so fresh and so vivid, I found it difficult to believe the event and the culture continued without me and has now heralded in a different generation of theatre geeks singing different songs and wearing different hairstyles.

With each such recollection, I play it like a moviola reel until the film runs out and I remember that it’s not a world I’m part of any longer. But the celluloid has left an image in my mind and I’m homesick enough to continue down memoir blouvard. Along my journey, peering into driveways as I travelled farther and farther back into my past, I came across a few memories that stood out. Although I didn’t realise it then, I can, with the wisdom of hindsight, pinpoint some life-defining moments I’ve had. I thought I’d share a few of them with you, in a list that only scratches the surface and motivates me to write a memoir one day. Here are a few of the gems, for your enjoyment:

Tiger 2-XL
For those of you who aren’t up on your geeky computer toys from the ’90s, 2-XL was a talking robot with four buttons that was more or less a trivia games using 8-track tapes. It would ask you multiple choice or true/false questions like “How many tiny creatures are living on your body?” or “Is a centimetre larger than an inch?” and as a reward for getting questions right, you’d get another piece of trivia. The appeal is not immediately apparent, as any kid who would voluntarily take a test in his or her spare time is clearly not the most popular on the playground, but it wasn’t just the premise of good ol’ 2-XL that did it for me. I saw the 2-XL commercialon television at one point or another, and was irrevocability drawn to the idea that, like the kid in the video, one who knew a lot of useless information, could somehow disband a pack of seven older, stronger, cooler guys. Not only did I play with 2-XL until its voice became dark and menacing due to the decay of my robot’s inner workings, but I took from this unusual holiday gift the belief that knowledge is fundamentally the key to not getting my ass kicked at school. While I still remember more strange trivia than anyone else I know, this weapon of brainpower is also going to keep my salary’s ass from getting kicked as well.

Pink Starburst
By far the most superior of all Starburst flavours, pink (or strawberry) Starburst were highly coveted among yesteryear’s youth. One particular Halloween, Starburst were the “it” candy, and after amassing more Starburst than I could have possibly eaten, I carefully traded all of my other sweets for all of my sister’s pink Starburst. It was here my tendency as a hoarder rather than a spender was first apparent, but it was also here that I first learned the dangers of saving too much. Now, with my plastic bag filled with only my favourite candy, I was the happiest kid on earth. I know what you’re thinking. You ate them all and got sick! You grew tired of pink Starburst! But neither is the case. In fact, just the opposite. I didn’t eat a single one. I saved those Starburst for later, knowing that one day I would crack open that bag and dance in my strawberry Starburst delight. When that perfect day came along, I tore open the plastic bag, ripped the wrapper off the first tiny square of sticky deliciousness and bit down. I nearly broke my teeth. Starburst, which are supposed to be soft and chewy, inevitably go rock hard with age. I had waited so long to savour my strawberry Starburst that I had rendered the entire bag inedible. In retrospect, it was really a difficult lesson for a child so young to learn (I don’t think I even had full days of school yet) but one that I still take with me to this day. If you’re going to trade all your chocolate for Starburst, at least enjoy the Starburst.

Switzerland
More specifically Silvaplana, Switzerland. My immediate family went on a trip to Europe before I went to high school, a very meaningful trip for us all. The site of my parents’ honeymoon, it was also the first time either me or my sister had travelled internationally, the first time I ever saw the world was bigger than my backyard, the first time I was on a train, and the first time I ever realised my parents were people too, not just parents. I learned so much on that trip; my eyes were wide open every step of the way. This beautiful town in the Swiss Alps gave birth to the moment I decided I needed to travel, that I didn’t want to stay in the U.S. But the most defining moment of the trip was something much more casual. It was the Swiss national holiday, and there were going to be 3-course meals at every restaurant and fireworks in the evening. It was summer, but there was still snow on the mountain, and I was terribly excited for the street faire I could see forming from our upper story deck. And my father, halfway through eating a loaf of bread, said, “Switzerland is just as pretty as some parts of Colorado. This is just like the fourth of July there.” I don’t even know if I was into the double-digits age wise then, but I had been to Colorado, and suddenly I saw he was right. I’m not saying Switzerland is the same as Colorado, but I knew what my dad meant. There is beauty everywhere in the world, and you have to appreciate places for what they are. But at the same time, don’t come to Switzerland because it’s supposed to be beautiful, and expensive, and extravagant. Come to Switzerland to see Switzerland. Go to Colorado to see Colorado. I have adopted that philosophy through every country’s soil I’ve set foot on since.

Blue October’s “Calling You”
We all have our days. And some of us our lucky enough to have our heroes too, our knights in shining armour that stroll up to the castle and fight off our bad days tooth and nail without hearing a request to. I remember one evening I declined an invitation to go out with friends on one such day. My three knights in armour didn’t remark on it, or ask why, or do anything other than ride up to my house in a beat up Honda, stand in my driveway, and loudly belt out the lyrics to Blue October’s “Calling You” in its entirety just to make me feel better. It worked. And while the song itself doesn’t hold any special meaning for me, just hearing a single lyric from the bard reminds me that I have extraordinary friends in this world who are willing to go to extraordinary lengths just to get me to smile. In a way, they have spoilt me by proving that true friends who truly understand me do exist, and will pull a U-turn on the freeway to serenade your bad days away. How lucky I am to have more than one such hero.

My Grandmother’s Garage
Grandparents have always been a marvelous species who properly spoil their grandchildren and in my case, tell the best bedtime stories and make the best vegetable soup and let you swim in the pool until you get pruney all over. I was one of those kids lucky enough to have one of my grandmothers live right down the street from me, well within the distance of a reasonable eight-year-old bike ride. While some of the best grandmother memories are usually confined to the average persons dim-at-best childhood memories, my grandmother’s crowning moments didn’t begin until I was in secondary school. My junior and senior year of high school, my friends and I had it in our minds that we’d start a band. So, my closest chum and I split the cost of a drum set and began our quest for two other willing musicians. The musicians were easy enough to find, and the cover songs easy enough to agree on, but finding a practice location was a different matter. My grandmother came to the rescue, not only allowing us to practice twice a week in her garage well into the summer, but providing cold beverages, delicious after school snacks, and towels should we decide to once again let our skin get wrinkled and pruney in the pool after rehearsal. In many ways that garage and the generosity of that grandmother made many of my dreams come true, and I will not hesitate to thank her profusely for her kindness, and, on behalf of my now-defunct band members, for being a surrogate grandmother to silly school children in good need of some fantasy and butter creams.

“Yesterday” by The Beatles
On another musical note, I have to place a distinct memory of my seventh-grade biology teacher sitting next to my sixth-grade math teacher (incidentally two of my all-time favourite teachers) parked on a picnic table in Big Bend National Park, strumming some chords and singing some notes that resulted in ultimately playing “Yesterday.” Now, I can’t say I’ve ever been a particular fan of the Beatles, but everyone seems to start guitar lessons by learning their songs (usually “Blackbird” is the first) while everyone seems to think their mastery is the mark of guitar success (usually “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” is the last). Although not part of this school of thought, it was nonetheless this passing Beatles song that convinced me I could pick up the instrument and experience a moderate level of success. I had found my mothers old Alvarez C-Neck in the garage and claimed it for myself. She had played a song or two for me from her own high school band days and I was blown away. Never could this musical magic be mine on my own, no matter how many times I read the chord book or studied “Killing Me Softly,” the only sheet music we owned. But then, I saw Mr. Elliott and Mr. Easton making their own magic on their own magic wands. Noticing my stares intent on their fretting hands, both teachers admitting to being self-taught, and from then on I decided I too could acquire this self-taught voodoo. “Yesterday” was the song I first started with because it was the song they first started with, and now that I know it by heart, I will probably never play it again.

Gừng
Gừng means “ginger” in Vietnamese. Or, if mispronounced, can also mean ginger, root, husband, and a number of other, completely different words. This I was taught by my eighth-grade World History I teacher, Ms. Trahn. At the time, hearing an eastern language was news to me, in fact, I don’t think I had ever before even heard of countries like India or China, much less Vietnam or Laos. The idea that intonation could change the meaning of words seemed such a powerful notion that I immediately began to notice the subtle and subconscious differences in human intonation and speech patterns (which perhaps explains my love of irony). Although I learned an incredible amount from that course in the way of world history (and indeed cultural awareness) and made a life friend and fellow easter-philosophy buddy, the only specific memory I have from that class is the lesson on how to properly pronounce gừng. It is this memory that impressed upon me the need for impeccable oral delivery, leading me to a successful run in the disciplines of debate, oratory, foreign languages, and, as it were, sarcasm.

And there are of course more. There is the pair of robotic toy dogs (the brown one of which my sister claimed and I then decided to sabotage with a marble), the time Greg Bahm and I wrote our own newspaper and delivered it to the neighbourhood, the SNES (Super Nintendo Entertainment System), and a brief period where I pretended to like Hamsters to remain close friends with Josh Lavine and Jeremy Cohen. There’s a holiday where I mistook a bookmark for a piece of candy and a doll I refused to ever give up, and my staunch dislike of pencils that earned me a reputation in the physics department I to this day do not live down, and the best teacher/mentor/friend who led me to everything I know and love.

But they are just windows among the many houses lining my path back home. After I’ve been driving long enough to get low on petrol, the lawns and front porches get fuzzier and blurrier and I have difficult keeping the memories accurate. Part of me honestly believes that these memories have something important to teach me; that’s why they’re still around. I’ve been afraid to lose them, so here I share them with you to preserve them, and to let you in on something about my life that makes me who I am today. So concludes the list of insignificant things that profoundly influenced my life. What are yours?

Now, why would someone like me, who is so enamoured with travel in its many forms, consider settling down at university for anything longer than a month, let alone four? Well, I could bullshit you for hours about all the joys of being a university student or all the benefits of living in a place rather than visiting it (there’s merit to both), but there’s really only one reason: money.

After all the student loans and university bills I know it seems counter intuitive, but especially if your tertiary education is the sort easy on the bank account, hear me out. Besides just the heavy discounts that come with being a full-time student or the many inevitable field trips that will come my way, enrolling myself in a university affords me the most flexible schedule, the most free time, the ability to change my mind at any given time, and numerous study abroad and summer programme opportunities. And in this particular case, thanks to UQSport and my various degrees of internet jedi magic, for a mere A$1500 (the same price of a weekend ski package) I can get:

1 S.C.U.B.A. certification + 3 dive dates

1 weekend trip to a tropical beach + 3 surf lessons

2 days camping on Fraser Island

2 days camping on Moreton Island

2 days snorkeling Herron Island

AND

Muay Thai lessons twice a week for 3 months

Japanese stick fighting on Thursday nights for 10 weeks

all with catering, accommodation, transit, and equipment rentals included. For another A$600 or so I can go on another 5 day snorkeling adventure, a 3 day outback safari, go deep sea fishing, and take up Tae Kwon Do.

Sailing I can do for just the price of a bus ticket, along with just about one million other activities not limited to: sand tobogganing, learning massage therapy, bushwalking and rock climbing, capoeira, rugby, Japanese lessons, and ceramics. Australia is one of the most welcoming countries for adventure sport.

That list of travel opportunities is music to my ears. “Why did you go to UQ, Leigh?” will be a question you need not ask again. Ladies and gentlemen of the Internet, I rest my case.

One of my keen observations leads me to believe that most of the people who have never been to Tokyo imagine it both glamorous and exotic. Sure, I’ll take that; to a large extent Tokyo is what you make it. Once you get past the hieroglyphic-looking Kanji, the city has much to offer. With 100,000¥ to drop on Louis Vitton sunglasses, Tokyo can be a haven for highrollers to rival Fifth Street or the Champs Élysées (which look eerily similar to Ginza and Aoyama, respectively). But if you’ve only pocket change to spare, Tokyo has enough standing room only ramen shops to keep you full forever and enough flea markets to hone your haggling skills. There’s homeless and ritzy and everywhere in between.

Foreigners often field the largest misunderstanding, believing Tokyo (and Japan in general) to be so unlike the Western World. While the Japanese lifestyle and values differ vastly from my own, I don’t find this opinion to be as valid as I once did. Japan and, say, France have more in common than they’d like to admit: xenophobia on a political level, cultural homogeneity, a love of pastries, a flair for expense, great educational institutions (with liberal and idealistic students), a tidy and efficient metro system, and a taste for fine dining and boutique shopping. Even without eating every meal at Hard Rock Cafe or McDonald’s it is incredibly easy to live out the Western lifestyle. Someone like me, usually aghast at tourist destinations and vehemently opposed to both guidebooks and “must-see” tourist traps, naturally fit in with a pace of life not so different from my own.

How do I explain this eerily similarity? I’ll show you. Below is an 8-minute account of an average day I spent over the last two months in Tokyo. For some, it may appear completely mundane and banal, but that’s the point of it. I wanted people, especially Americans, to see that Tokyo life isn’t this alien concept. It’s just regular life with a different background (hence the particular detail to scenes of transit so you could see all the different neighbourhoods of Tokyo).

A Day in Tokyo from Leigh Cooper on Vimeo.

If I had to pick a city to compare Tokyo to, I’d choose New York. The city is incredibly diverse, dense, and filled to the brim with character. All the different wards of Tokyo have their own brand of Tokyoites and there is an unending amount of osmosis where citizens easily spend a day in over four different neighbourhoods according to the need. And, like New York, living in Tokyo definitely comes with a particular lifestyle. It really is a great city and I’d highly suggest it to anyone that loves urban living. I’d be happy to answer any and all questions and offer up some real-world advice now or in the future if anyone is planning on visiting.

A few last notes: Tokyo is really mind-bogglingly big. I recall the first time my roommate Allison and I missed the last train home from Shibuya. We didn’t realise how far away the city centres were. Imagine the sprawl of Los Angeles with the density of New York. The only way to describe it really is epic. Needless to say, Allison and I had little idea of what we had set ourselves up for, but we embarked on foot to get home nonetheless. After three hours of walking through a maze of motorways we found ourselves home. The most amazing part was not how long it took us, but how dense the city was. From Shibuya all the way to Roppongi it was nothing but city. It was actually a good experience. We wandered through residential neighbourhoods, strips of bars and restaurants still open, a park or two, and a few big business and shopping centres. And this was just along the motorway.

In fact, most of the travel I’ve done in Tokyo is fairly disorienting. Using the subway system is akin to being a groundhog. You go down one hole and pop up another, sometimes sticking your head up for air or sunshine (or 7/11) until you decide to go back to your den. For example, my commute to work is roughly 45 minutes (sometimes more if Tameike-Sanno is so packed I can’t fit on the train during rush hour) with one transfer and almost no waiting time. Yet the actual distance from door to door is less than 5 km. You can understand a map but until you get above the city via Mori Tower or Tokyo Tower or any of the numerous sky bars that accent the skyscraper landscape, the vastness of Tokyo will not really be clear.

In summation, I’ve enjoyed my summer here immensely and proved to myself that I really can go anywhere, do anything and still live happily. I am grateful for the experience, and though I’m ready for the next layover on my epic jetsetting journey, I will be sad to say goodbye. And that is how it should be.

Never a big drinker at home, what kind of cultural immersion would I be feigning if I didn’t at least try some of the local brew? Since I’ve been in Tokyo my few short weeks, I’ve tasted the sake the prince drinks at the royal household, visited the gold-plated building that is Asahi national headquarters, and spent an evening making slurred attempts at small talk with the locals in the closet-sized bars of the Golden Gai. I have given up a few nights of sleep in favour of a pub crawl or a karaoke marathon, and I have let a few of my taste buds go numb in the noble effort to experience Japan’s frontline first-hand.

It all started with the official (ironically government-run) Nihonshu Fair 2008, where the Japan Times sent a few of us over to Ikebukuro’s Sunshine City to document the world’s biggest sake tasting. So, camcorder in hand, I set out to videotape the event. Of course once the taping was done, I had the opportunity to rub elbows with some of the highest brow sake journalists in the country, learning loads about the industry, the specialties of each prefecture, and the etiquette of downing sake. I emerged from the experience a good deal more knowledgeable despite leaving several brain cells lighter. Below you can see the video I put together of the event for The Japan Times Online.

What I really took away from the Nihonshu Fair was not an understanding of sake artistry or a history lesson of industry competition or a lecture on the technicalities of federal export laws, but the realisation that the generally reserved Japanese find it difficult to stay that way the moment the tap turns on. Japan takes fourth place on the global list of widespread drinkers; 92 percent of the population has had a drink in their life, a statistic that is reiterated in my nightly observations.

Everyone drinks here. I mean everyone: middle-aged men in sharp business suits, young single women in stilettos, teenagers still in their school uniforms, college kids, intellectuals, foreign travellers, housewives out with their neighbours. On weekends it is hard to walk three blocks without seeing someone in last night’s outfit crouched in a corner or by a sewer with a plastic bag, perhaps flanked by a few concerned comrades, but otherwise beyond sleeping it off. On evenings it is difficult to secure space in a crowded restaurant where you cannot audibly hear the drunken laughter emitted by the 26-person table of Japanese coworkers two rooms down. The drinking culture is so omnipresent and so accessible, they sell beer in vending machines. And when a coke-a-cola costs more than a Kirin stout, it’s no mystery why so many turn to the pints until the last round is called.

The drinking culture is so omnipresent and so accessible, they sell beer in vending machines.

Tokyo especially is a shockingly 24hour culture. It is easy to spend only three nights a week actually sleeping, since so much is open after hours. But when you step back and look at the demographics of what stays open through the wee hours of the morning, the picture starts to get a little less fuzzy. At any give 3 am morning on any given street, at least 15 percent of the establishments in the area are open, but they are limited to convenience stores, grocers, restaurants, and, of course, bars. Sentos and onsen (bathhouses) are open late for those wishing to soak or sweat out the excess alcohol, and capsule hotels offer all-night check-in for those unwilling to sleep on park benches until the first train arrives in the morning.

There’s a magic to it, that’s for sure. It’s a unique experience to watch the sun rise at 4:30 in the morning over a far from deserted Shinjuku or Shibuya. And it’s part of the Japanese experience to find yourself on the darker side of rice, potato, or even plum wine. It’s just a part of the culture so upfront it doesn’t take much searching to find even off the beaten path dives.

In any such dive, local or tourist, you can get a Japanese bar-mate to say more about the death penalty or child abduction or global warming than you can anywhere else in the city. Japan likes to present a unified front on a macro and micro scale (both in foreign policy and in day-to-day encounters) that does not take kindly to open discussion of social issues anywhere that isn’t on an anonymous blog. But the bar is a sacred place where politics of any variety can be discussed with little to no retribution needed the morning after. In fact, anything said over a tankard is exempt from the following: being believed, repeated, remembered, or revisited on any occasion for any reason. So drink up, my friends, and find safety in the knowledge that your otherwise uncouth cultural faux pas will not only never be recounted, but will undoubtedly be the most entertaining event of the evening.

If it started with the Nihonshu Fair, it ends in Asakusa, next to Sumida-gawa, above the Flame d’Ore, overlooking the expanse of the city and its many drinking habits as a whole. I’m still standing at the top of my Tokyo game, drinking it all in, and toasting to a city worth visiting.

All you need to know - 8 simple rules for drinking in Japan: