Thursday, October 30, 2003

An excellent resource.
Amusing to see that ET's lead story today was the LA bushfires. I love it when ET tries to do serious news, which usually takes the form of ET appropriating some murder (usually involving pregnant mothers) as entertainment. Today, they had Jaaaan Caarl, dolled-up with beauty mark as per usual, in a chopper(!) above the fires (although they provided no evidence of that) reporting such gems as "the filming of Divorce Court has been halted because the actor who plays the security guard has lost his house..." They then crossed to New York where Courtney Cox-Arquette was asked for her thoughts ("it's very sad").

Their next angle was the "emotional" reunion between a reporter whose news van burnt and the fireman who saved him. This provided another chance for news crews to get all self-important. WE nearly died. WE were in danger. Convenient that they get a nice news headline out of parking their van too close to the fire. I guess the bushfires do fall under ET's reporting mandate, as they are threatening LA, the home of numerous important celebrities.
I'm also suspicious of Thorpie's uber-tan. No one looks that bronzed in October. I suspect that Thorpie, like everyone else it seems, has been having a bit of the old body-bronze sprayed on. Another reason to suspect that Thorpie (these days) is a sham swimmer. Shouldn't a swimmer be naturally tanned? Or maybe he's swimming indoors, away from UV, because his skin is insured or something. So many J.Lo parallels. Yes, I think my dislike is irrational, but another reason I have for my irrational dislike (which doesn't actually require a reason) is that I seem to remember that Thorpie has one of those sham "Save the Children" style charities e.g. Patrick Rafter's "Cherish the Children". Now, these organisations may be doing good work and helping alot of people, but why do all these celebs try to save the children? It's ALWAYS the children Kylie, however, I truly believe DOES care for the kids. She, as always, is genuine.

I'll do my proper run-down soon, but can I just say that I love the song, and I love the clip. I suspect, however, that Kylie's much hyped "mature" new image in reality only means that her arse is slightly obscured in the clip. AND if you look at the final shot in the clip, the male beef-cake next to her has his hands down his bathers. Check it out!
Oh yeah. Last week I saw Kill Bill and it was fantastic of course. I just have a few questions. How come, after waking from a four-year coma, Uma only had to will her legs out of their entropy, while her arms worked perfectly well? Is that usual? Also, was everyone surprised by the 'surprise' revelation at the end of the film? I only ask because I was expecting it to happen. Is that weird? It just seemed like a necessary dramatic element that I was sure would be reintroduced, so... Was it really meant to be a surprise? Anyway, I just have one final question. A friend heard a piece of dialogue differently to me, and I just wanted to find out if I heard right. At the beginning of the film, just before the bullet thwacks sickeningly into Uma's skull, she says "Bill. It's your baby", right? I think that's what she said.

Here's a weird thing. David Carradine, the guy who plays yucky sadistic a-hole Bill [you know, the guy that Uma's trying to kill] was on Lizzie Maguire the other day. He's some kung-fu TV legend or something. And his brother plays Lizzie's dad, so he was guesting in an 'in-joke' fashion. You find all this very interesting, don't you?
Whoah! Guy, BACK OFF! Hear me out. Thorpie used to look like a dork. Do you remember him aged 14 to about, well, now? He never quite hit it. And all I'm saying is, something has definitely happened. I first noticed the change a few months back when I saw an ad for The Great Outdoors for which Thorpie was doing a report on Athens. He had a black singlet on and that great new hair, and I thought "Wait a minute. Did Thorpie get hot?". I tried to pass it off as some freakish conspiracy of the Grecian wind and sun. I mean, his name is Ian, so he couldn't be hot, right? But then, I was watching the ads for the news yesterday, and there he was again. He was in some white hipster trunks and a singlet, and his hair was still great [something about its length is just right. Oh, and the blonde tips. They are the first successful male tips I have seen] and he was uber-tanned and UNMISTAKABLY hot. I am serious Guy. Thorpie has turned into something, and I comment on it only because he was so not there before. Remember the long-sleeved skin-tight Versace V-necks he was sporting a few years back? Ergh! And his hair was so blah. But now! Oh my. So, the answer to your hysterical "what's happening?" is simple. Calm down, okay? The sky is not falling. I made the remark "When did Thorpie get so hot?" because, my dear, hot he got.

Stop judging me. But I agree that his forays into "jewellery design" were a grievous misstep. "Jewellery design" is what happens to people who are successful in one domain, [be they actors, divas, or sportspeople] and who then can't see what a presumption it is for them to want to "design", despite their lack of training and expertise. I haven't seen the jewellery or anything, I'm just registering my concern, because usually, when people accept a company's offer to design a product line for them, it signals that they have moved "inside the beltway", to borrow an expression. You know, their frame of reference has become all ridiculous and limited, and stuff. Yuck. But, I still maintain that Thorpie got hot.

Wednesday, October 29, 2003

Ian Thorpe is not hot! Signature underwear ranges are not hot! Signature PEARL ranges are not hot! Blonde tips are not hot! White suits are not hot! Thorpie's Angels was not hot! AND he started this whole metrosexuality thing! What's happening Elanor?

Hey! When did Thorpie get so hot?

Tuesday, October 28, 2003

So President Bush visited the country the other day and made a speech to Parliament, and all that. And all I have to say is, "That guy is a genius"! Let me explain. You know those conversations you get into when things aren't really going your way, and you feel like you're making a dick of yourself and everyone is judging you and with every utterance you are hanging yourself and everyone is kind of tense and you just wish that there was a way you could break the tension with grace and aplomb and get yourself back onto a better footing, but you just can't find the words to do it? You know, those awkward moments that inevitably occur in social situations? Well, President Bush has found the ultimate solution to this problem. If his parliamentary appearance is anything to go by, this line is a surefire hit, a 'witty rejoinder' worthy of clamourous applause. So, picture this. You've just made what you thought was an hilarious call, but it has been met with blaring and shame-inducing silence. Or, you're in an argument and you've backed yourself so deep into a corner that you can't possibly imagine that a way out is even possible. What do you do? Well folks, the five little words that I am about to share with you are the most powerful way out I have ever seen. They smooth down even the most resistant of hackles. They break the tension instantly, and everyone around you is grateful for it. George has taught me, and now I am passing the nifty trick onto you, that to get out of any sticky situation that you come across in your life requires only that you pause, take in the crowd, [maybe shrug and hold out your hands, but that is a context-reliant flourish, and you will be the best judge as to whether it will stand] and say "Hey, I love free speech". I am in the process of incorporating this gem into my default position. Gone are the days when, after causing or enduring any social trauma, I would feebly hum, or say "whatever". I gratefully put those involuntary defaults into the bin. Now, I will be a powerful and unassailable foe, armed only with [if my brain allows my programming override] the unimpeachable greatness of "Hey, I love free speech". It placates admiriers and infuriates foes. It can even be used to disarm the most 'intellectual' of combatants, if delivered as an 'humourous ironic quotation'. It is, in a word, perfect. Those Americans really do know a thing or two about artillery.

Saturday, October 25, 2003

Have just been listening to the new Strokes album. Yay! Yay! Yay! Oh god. Soooo yay! In other music listening news, have for the past month or so been paying serious heed to last year's first album from The Coral. It's a beauty. Serious heed also given to the EP [at least I think it's an EP. EPs are the short albums that bands release before they get a proper deal, right?] from The Hells. Don't be put off by the name. They're not as try-hard as it would suggest. It's a really good EP [or LP or whatever], with special mention going to the final track, He's The Devil [But I Love Him So]. Excellent.

Friday, October 24, 2003

Was watching The Bachelorette and noticed that the show doesn't 'turn the world upside-down', or similar, as much as its spruikers might have us believe. There are weird and unnecessary touches to the show that only make sense when you realise that they have been included because someone has said "We have to modify this otherwise this is just too emasculating, dudes". These are just three of the details I have noticed that are there for no other reason than to ease the men more gently into the aberrant and degraded position in which they find themselves.

Detail #1 is the rose design. These boys don't get no long-stemmers. Hell no! And why? Because they are GUYS people! Only girls get long-stemmed roses [Alright. Ladies get them too]. So, logically, if you gave a GUY a long-stemmed rose, that would make him a girl [or a lady]. And that is a no-no. Thus, because they are GUYS... wait, no. Because they are MEN, they get lapel roses. Yeah. They deserve lapel roses. You know why? Because MEN wear lapel roses. Lapel roses are masculine. And these guys, here, in this room, involved in this rose ceremony, these guys are MEN. Don't you forget it.

Detail #2 occurs before the rose ceremony. The host of the show uses this time to justify his presence and salary. He explains the 'process' of the ceremony and focusses everyone's attention on the importance of it's outcome to next week's episode etc. Well, in The Bachelorette, he also uses this time to applaud the MEN for being so brave and 'open' in putting themselves in such an unfamiliar 'position' which, because they are MEN, of course, is obviously the opposite of the one that they are used to [and which they deserve and should expect].

Detail #3 is again all about the language. As they go into the ad break before the rose ceremony begins, the voice-over man says "Whose ego will be shattered? Find out, next". That never got said about the girls. It was always "Whose heart will be broken?" and such. These are all telling departures. I find myself asking "Now, why would they do that? Hmmmm". And my answer? "Oooh. That's fucked up, yo".

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

While I love Delta to bits, and think that Farnsey's a TOTAL TOSSER, I have to admit that Erin perfectly summed up last night's ARIAS (or "Deltas").
I hope that people were lucky enough to stumble upon the James Hewitt documentary the ABC had on the other night. Hilarious. The defining image would have to be when Mr. Hewitt, reclining in a bath-tub and smoking a pipe, claimed that “I had to put a lot of bubbles in this tub – I’m a big boy”. The self-described bounder then went on to detail the joys of sucking his wet-nurse’s “tits”. Also funny was the quietly taking-the-piss interviewer who enjoyed getting James all angsty by asking him how he made his money, and why he hadn’t worked for even one day over the past twelve years. The latest source of revenue, of course, was the sale of Diana’s love letters that he was trying to organise “either in the US or the middle east”. It was fun to watch his nervous rationalisations for the dirty deed e.g. “the letters are historical artefacts that need to be preserved” and that “preservation of these documents is motivating the sale”. More funny stuff: the “Chelsea set C-list celeb famous for having plastic surgery on her G-Spot” and the fact that every person interviewed seemed to subtly imply that Princess Di was in fact a potty-mouthed cow. I love boozed-up English toffs!
Hee hee. Tonight the Queer Eye guys are going to be on Oprah. [hugging self] I just love it when the world works out exactly as I planned. Brwa ha ha! [petting feline] Patience my pretties. [eyes glittering] Yes!

Monday, October 20, 2003

Until this evening, I was loathe to enter the fray surrounding the 'ridiculousness' of ads for 'female hygeine' products. You know, all that brou-ha-ha and 'aware' talk about menstrual blood being "like, not blue" and about the sanitary pad not generally being put to use as a fix-all for leaks etc. You know what I mean. I vowed never to go there because it has been commented upon to the point of lameness [though of course, not to the point of achieving any substantial change]. Every time someone smugly trotted out such hackneyed material, I was like, yawn. Move along. But this evening I saw one of the most piss funny things relating to this subject. Forgive me, but I just had to share.

It was a tampon ad for some new tampon whose major selling point was an 'ease shield' or something. Whatever it's called, it's meant to be, like, silky or something, which makes for a smoother insertion. Simple, right? Wrong. Just consider what you would do if you were in advertising and this was the angle you needed to emphasise to explain the superiority of the product you had to hawk, okay? Come on big stuff, how would you illustrate that this particular tampon is designed to create less, er, 'friction' than other brands, without alluding in any way to the fact that it is also designed to get stuck up women's fanny holes to absorb, you know, "stuff"? No ideas? Punk? You disappoint me. It's just soooo obvious! You make the tampons race each other of course, dummy!

The ad's demonstrative mechanism was so beautiful. There was a glass sloped surface with two vertical canals indented on it and water running down them. The indentations were like two water slides, side by side, but of a size that made them suitable only for use by tampons [you must be "this" wide to ride]. So, two tampons [one being our boy, the other a less evolved challenger] were sliding down the canals, propelled by gravity and with only their own friction to impede them. Wheeeeee! It was intense, man. And would you believe it, but the new 'ease' tampon with its smoother less frictional surface won! Yay!

I think we all learned an important lesson here today, people. Perhaps even a variety of lessons. Any physics teachers out there, take note. Prepare your experiments and just watch the learning happen. So cheap, yet so effective a demonstration about the forces acting on moving objects and stuff, don't you think? And ladies, now that we've got the lowdown on which tampon would win a race down a slightly sloped and pristine water slide [wink wink] we can all be better informed about our options [wink wink]. Do the math, girls. Make the translation. You know what that means.

Hee hee hee! Ha ha ha ha ha haaaaaa! I think this ad is hilarious. And bizarre. It's like, totally weird packaged as 'polite' but it knows it's totally weird. Brilliant.

Sunday, October 19, 2003

Near death.

Now, I don't want to be alarmist or anything, but last night, my mother nearly killed me! And no, this is not a figurative dilemma. It is all too real. Were it not for the new season's warmth, which necessitated that all the doors and windows around me be open for the purposes of ventilation, then my existence might very well have been snuffed out. Done. Finito. Finally and irrevocably... dead. I am mildly perturbed by this because existence is my thing, baby. And it is my only thing. So when it is threatened, I get a little freaked. You see, it happened like this. I fell asleep on the living room couch, as per usual, which, in open plan living style, is in the same room as the kitchen. Anyway, after doing her usual tinkering in said kitchen, my mum was the last to go to bed. And she hates it that I sleep on the couch. So somehow [though I am not insinuating anything], the gas on the kitchen stove got left on, releasing deadly carbon monoxide into the air that I was breathing all night. Yikes. My dad woke up next morning, and opened his and mum's bedroom door [which had conveniently cordoned them off from danger] to find two things: (1)the undeniable reek of gas, and (2)my peaceful and innocent form slumbering on the couch. I was fine, due to the aforementioned window situation, but alls I'm saying is that I just as easily might not have been. So, as I said, I am a little freaked. And suspicious.

You see, my mum is what I would call the passive-aggressive type. She lets her rage out indirectly in little bursts of 'stinging' mutters. This, as you can imagine, garners little response. So I am just wondering if my consistency in acting against her wishes somehow tripped her impotent frustration over into something more pathological. Perhaps something in her brain snapped, and decided [I am hoping subconsciously] to 'teach me a lesson' about the perils of going against her. You want to sleep on the couch, daughter dear? Let's see how much you like it when you're dead. Harrumph! But that's just crazy talk, right? I'm sure it was just an accident. Yeah. I'm sure it was just that her belly brushed across the stove's knob as she was leaning over it to switch on the kettle. Yeah. I'm sure that's all it was. I mean, I shouldn't be worried right? She's my mum, yo? They don't do that, right? And anyway, accidents happen, don't they? And no harm came of it really. So, um, case closed. Right?

Friday, October 17, 2003

I would tell you that I have just returned home from a brilliant gig by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The Liars, but I feel that I have tortured you enough in detailing the fortunacies of my fortunate life, and have probably also tested the devotion of you all with my incessant crowing. I mean, all I did was buy some tickets and go to a few venues, right? No great skill there. And heaps of losers who think they are cool go to gigs. So why should I lord it over you so madly? Basking so self-regardingly in reflected glory is such a loserish ridiculous thing to do, you know. Oh well. Waaaaaaaaaaa! Yeah! Freakin fabulous, man! Wooo-hoo! Yeaaaah! Fuckin yeah! Sorry. But I do have good reason. You see, we walked in and found a pozzie in which to wait out the opening act, and, would you believe it, but we were right next to Karen O! And, yes, it really was the real Karen O, and not one of her imitators, who were of course legion. I was aware of that possibility, so I double-[triple, quadruple, quintuple etc.] checked, just to be sure that it was really her. And when I was sure, I checked again, just to drink in the wonder that is she. We were right next to her! And though I doubt that I impressed her at all with my presence [I was at the time presenting as a fat sweaty blob] I nonetheless can cherish the fact that for a period of time in my measly little life, she was mingling with the people and the people were us! Yay! And then later, Nick Zinner sidled past us while beating a path through the throng. Yay! But it is ridiculous to gloat about such chance encounters. They of course mean little, and serve only to reveal how close we can be but how far we actually are from the glittering world of brilliant rock personalities. But still, such moments feel awkwardly spectacular. Yay!

Oh, and the gig run is over now so expect future posts to reach out to you from a place of dejected bitterness. Fair warning.

Thursday, October 16, 2003

Um, hi. Not to brag or anything but I just got back from the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club gig, so YEEAAAAAH! Fuckin yeah! Grin grin grin. Yaaaaaaaaaa! My ears are still ringing. Brilliant! Yay yay yay! I probably enjoyed it more than they did, because they were dealing with "technical crap" [and that is a direct quote from an actual Black Rebel Motorcycle Clubber. Tingle]. There are just too many people to be in love with in this world. I just can't quite pick which one is my favourite. 'Hottie drummer', or 'so fucking dark-and-cool-eyed guitar man', or 'got-the-moves-energetic-nihilist bass boy'? So much love. And then there's everyone else on the planet who is in a band to love. But I usually narrow it down to one man per band, as I don't want to cause any friction between them. So which one is it to be? I just don't know. Hmmmm. I'm actually more jealous of them than hot for them. I just want to be them [or similar], all cool and brilliant and thrashing about elegantly and secret-smiling at one another and stuff. God damnit! Why do I have not one ounce of musical experience, huh? I could be in a band. I could be a peer, man. [crestfallen sigh] But anyway, [now perking up] did I mention that I just got back from a Black Rebel Motorcycle Club gig, and that this occurred only one night after having gone to a White Stripes gig? Did I mention that? Really? Oh, I thought it may have slipped my mind, considering how usual such brushes with hottie excellence are in my life. So I did mention it, huh? How nice for you.

Wednesday, October 15, 2003

As an addendum to last night's post, I am floating another instalment of the E List.

Things That I Love, Item #1 Jack White [swoon].

Things That I Love, Item #2 Jack White [giddy applause]. Swoon!

Aw hell. Item # 3 Brilliant Hottie Rockers generally [all inclusive swoon!]
Hi. I just got back from The White Stripes gig so, I'm like, whoah. Alriiiiiiiight! Woo-hoo! Yeah! You guys rock! If it's possible, they were better than the last time I saw them. Well, it is possible, of course. Jack looked so loony. God I love him. Yippeee! Yay! Whoopeee! Weeeeeeee! Yeah. Fuckin yeaaah!

Tuesday, October 14, 2003

Yesterday afternoon I was watching Entertainment Tonight and I was shown something that made me giddy with joy. I whooped. The world is a marvellous place. You see, Paris and Nicky Hilton are going to be on Oprah. Whoopee! Don't ask me why they are going to be on Oprah, because it doesn't matter. I am happy and I don't need to search for the reason behind my happiness. Only a few snippets of the episode were previewed on ET, but in typical Hilton fashion, they were pure gold. For some reason, Paris had done a shift at McDonalds, and she was telling Oprah that in an eight hour shift you only make $40, which, like, will only get you an entree meal at The Ivy restaurant in Los Angeles. And Oprah was like, that's so true. You'll only get a crabcake or something. Isn't that amazing? Wow, how the other half lives, eh? Eight whole hours of work, for one delicious crabcake. Crazy. Can I just say how much I love the Hilton sisters? I think that they are teriffic. And I now have only to survive until that episode of Oprah airs on my TV for me to have lived a happy and fully contented life. I could then die knowing that I had witnessed unparalelled magnificence. Knock on wood. Oh, and I am not being sarcastic. I am a born again Parisien. In my other life I mocked her, but she is glorious and beyond reproach. I am not kidding. I mean, you have to be pretty brilliant to say the things that she has. Or maybe bonkers. But the joy is real, whatever the case. Bring it on.

Monday, October 13, 2003

A few posts ago, I mused about the possibility that 'showbusiness partner' might be a new attempt at a euphemism to identify spousal relationships between men. It was meant partly in jest, but hey, if I turn out to be right and the term gets embraced by people who 'get it', then I will most definitely take any credit that is flung my way about my capabilities as a trend-setter/predicter. Anyway, the other day, something popped up along these lines that I felt like sharing. I was watching Best In Show again, [and yes, Marty, I think you might be right about it being better than A Mighty Wind. It certainly maintains interest longer, of the "who will win?" variety, and it makes better use of its characters. They all have a reason to be there, which couldn't be said for Parker Posey's character in Wind, you know?]... um, let's start this again. I was watching Best In Show again, and was tickled by the line, "Jerry. Meet my euphemism, Stefan". Hee hee. Hilarious, right? But more to the point, it's to the point, right? Or at least, I felt that it was to the point, which doesn't mean that it was. My ideas about this stuff are most probably half-baked. I sometimes feel that I am making a presumptuous prat of myself by making such pronouncements while only having a second-hand, media-laden knowledge of the subject. Is it pratty to call it "the subject"? Hmmmm. I'm gonna take the chance of pratting myself anyway. I have a pronouncement to make. I think that the term "companion" is hella crappy. I humbly submit that the substitution of either "euphemism" or "showbusiness partner" would be way cooler.

On other matters, I must highly recommend that everybody stay home on Saturday nights [or, failing that, at least make the technologically savvy move to pre-setting the VCR, which has been my crowning achievement of this year] to catch a fabulous new show called The Iron Chef. It screens at 7.30pm on SBS and it is a bizarre pisser. Renowned chefs challenge one of three chefs from the Iron Chef stable to do battle, in "Kitchen Stadium" no less, to see who can produce the best completely original dishes in one hour. All dishes must feature the "theme ingredient" of the night, which is chosen by the ringmaster of the whole shabang, who seems a little nutty. All of this madness is translated to us via overdubbed commentary in the American football style, complete with a three-person commentary panel consisting of (1) a careerist commentator, (2) an expert commentator, and (3) a celebrity blow-in inexpert commentator. It's like one of those crazy Japanese game shows, but all the particpants play it straight. These chefs really know what they are doing, and showcase supreme skills while creating their dishes. Man, the bladework has to be seen to be believed. The comedy comes from the dramatic staging, which is familiar, but hilarious and revealing for its being used in a cooking contest rather than a sporting one. The commentators actually do what commentators do; they try to predict the next moves of the combatants, they rib each other, they inject excitement into their voices about how proceedings are going, etc. There is even a "boundary rider" supplying up-to-the-moment updates about what's going on in the thick of the action, and interviewing those sitting in the challenger's "coach's box". I sat there transfixed, thinking, "How do they do this without cracking up? Or is it really a serious contest undertaken in earnest? But it can't be. It's perfectly pitched to take the piss. But are the chefs in on the joke? Or do they not really care, and just enjoy the creativity the competiton allows them?". Whatever the case, it's compelling, weird, and well-voiced. Check it out.

Saturday, October 11, 2003

Taking Guy's advice, I just checked out Amy's blog, Frewrious Spew [which explains why nothing came up last week when, working on 'overheard intelligence', I tried to surreptitiously sneak a peek at snoo_snoo]. Apart from everything else, she has a link in one of her posts to the greatest Lord Of The Rings site ever [and I know this even though it is the only Lord Of The Rings site I have ever visited]. The site presents 'fictional' secret diaries of all the Lord Of The Rings characters, in which much of the action turns on everyone being a "pervy hobbit-fancier". It is soooo great! It takes the perspective that the characters are all perving on and bitching about one another, and makes it plain that maintaining their looks is much more of a concern for the Fellowship et al than is saving the world from the Dark Lord Sauron [who isn't so bad really. Elrond just never forgave him for being honest about purple really not being his colour]. I cacked myself big time. The very existence of this site also provides great evidence for me to use when I argue that I'm not totally crazy for thinking that there is something very gay going on in Lord Of The Rings. None of my immediate or extended family members will listen to my theories, but they'll have to be won over by these diaries. I mean, they are actual documents of the characters' secret thoughts! Ahem. It was really rather scary that I immediately understood every single LOTR reference [sourced from book and film and various Appendices] contained therein. Am perhaps much bigger LOTR dork than had allowed self to think. Oh god! Listen to me! I'm actually using the abbreviation "LOTR"! [And, have unnaccountably switched to Bridget Jones-speak]. There is evil here that does not sleep. Anyway, favourite line from hobbit-fancier secret diaries is "Sam will kill him if he tries anything", which always follows a remark about how somebody has the major hots for Frodo. I like it, even though I don't agree with it. I have always maintained that Frodo is way more into Sam than Sam is into him, with Sam being the one who actually believes all that "purely platonic man-bond" claptrap that has been put about. But it really works better the "pervy hobbit-fancier" way [where Frodo is the primary object of affection for most characters] because it allows for Frodo to constantly mistake all the groping that's coming his way for "the corrupting power of the one ring" turning his fellow travellers into grasping thieves. Hee hee. And I am just going to die if no-one else has any idea of what I am talking about and why it is funny. Because I am not a LOTR dork, okay? I just know some stuff. It's completely random. Well, sure, so I am named out of the books, and I have read them twice, and I have lost count of the number of times I've seen both films so far, but do the words 'Aragorn' and 'hot' mean anything to you?! That could happen to anybody. And yeah, so what if I have already got my aunty in Bendigo to book Boxing Day tickets so that I can see the final instalment with my little cousins on the very first day of its release? Huh? It's a real treat for them! These things do just happen, you know? It's only when you pile them all up together like this that they begin to look pretty bad and indicative of something. I will freely admit to being a member of my own family, but I am most definitely not a LOTR dork. And besides, I have real and conscientious misgivings about LOTR and its racism and use of 'dark continent' tropes to deny empathy for the Orc, Goblin and Uruk-Hai populations. I mean, Orcs and such may fight in hordes, but they each have an interiority too, you know, and are probably not cannibals either. That's all just self-serving Western lies and hogwash. So there! I bet you never heard a real LOTR dork say something like that! This kind of 'revisionist' analysis of the text in an attempt to make a wider point about prejudice in society generally is strictly the domain of normal, disinterested people who are in no way LOTR dorks. Okay? So, anyways, good on Amy for dishing up such bloggity goodness.

Friday, October 10, 2003

Buzz, buzz, buzz… hear the buzz about Frewrious Spew, the new blog that’s hard to say, but easy to love. Run by Amy - Symposiasts reader, all round cool chick and one of my escorts to the “Stripped Tour 2003” – it's something everyone needs to read right now. Especially appropriate for those disillusioned by the the incomprehensible Perth/WAAPAness of Maybe I’ll Go Blind.

Congrats to Elanor for superb blogging. I’ll soon seek to re-establish at least some level of presence on the blog, possibly using for fodder Holly Valance’s amazing rise to the top on the coat tails of the new “thing”, careerist aggressiveness.
This evening, I was settling in to watch the first episode of the gender bending The Bachelorette, and I was thinking to myself, "Boy, do we live in progressive times, or what?". Anyway, courtesy of the Channel Nine time lag, [really, you could set your clock by that thing] I happened to catch the last ten minutes of the Women's Weekly 70th Anniversary Extravaganza [and I'm only assuming that that was the humble title given to this sterling 'event']. Man, it sure was hack city, with 'briefly rescussitating flagging careers' dressed as 'worthy nostalgia'. And the audience! Talk about Sydney 'A' List [and you all know what that means. Everything in that town is valued way above its actual worth]. Mike Munro was the compere, and he was straining desperately hard to infuse meaning into the proceedings by presenting WW as 'the one constant to be relied upon in these uncertain times'. What a cretin. I have never been privy to anything less fabulous. I kept peering into the darkness and asking, "Who are these people? And why are they shaking their heads and laughing?" Losers. The show finished with a 'duet' by Rhonda Birchmore and some young cabaret 'star', but I don't think Rhonda sang a bar, which was odd. It was just clunky faux-fabulous all the way. And I think it actually pretended to have a sense of humour about itself, though obviously, the whole concept of the night belied the consummate failure of that redeeming instinct, if it even exists in Sydney at all. Yikes.

Thursday, October 09, 2003

I am so goddamn sick of every review about the work of Ang Lee listing every film he's made except for Ride With The Devil! Ergh! I mean, this is the jewel in his estimable crown! What is with people? Why was this film barely seen? It is the greatest movie ever! Aaaarrghhh! [grouchy mumbling]... goddamn reviewers with their total lack of understanding about the finer things in life... can't get off their arses to give credit where it's due... and the film has major stars in it too... thought that at least would appeal to their facile interest in things... goddamn stupid jerks... don't know what's good for them...

But I can't think about that now. I'll think about that tomorrow. Gotta run. Lizzie Maguire's on, poised to display a fresh batch of hijinks by her brother Matt and his friend Lanny, so, I would stay and chat and all, but... you know how it is.
I was just checking on the blog after coming home from work and in my bleary daze I accidentally typed in the address, which led me to a site called Aarons Bible [and no, I did not forget the apostrophe. He did]. It is billed as "a mega-site of Bible, Christian & religious information & studies". So, I was like, ewww. Be very careful my pretties. Remember the s in blogspot. I wouldn't want any of you to stray towards the wrong path.

Wednesday, October 08, 2003

Today, I am having a Seinfeld moment, so here it goes. What's the deal with arsehole jocks initiating the young by sodomising them with broomstick handles? Huh? Why is it always a broomstick handle? When the hell was this pattern established? I mean, every time! How does that happen? Hello! Research grant!

Now, in a completely unrelated matter, and I am dead earnest about that, these two subjects are completely unrelated and I am not trying to be funny in any way by mentioning them together. There is no link between them. And I am not protesting too much about this, either. These two snippets are in no way related and are not to be understood as revealing aspects of the same beast, okay? Okay. So, I was just listening to the reports about the mauling of Roy from Siegfried & Roy, and I am just wondering if a new euphemism for 'gay' partner has been found. I keep hearing the term 'showbusiness' partner. Is this new? Or is it just strictly literal, in the same way that 'completely unrelated' is strictly literal [which it is]? I was just wondering.

Tuesday, October 07, 2003

Just a quick note to register my appreciation of the 'buzz' shows of the moment. Australian Idol is growing on me, even though the judges have no idea what they are talking about. Dicko is the only reasonable one, and even he too often slips into the mediocre tone set by Mark and Marcia. For example, the other night, Levi, a heretofore unimpressive candidate, actually managed to make a Savage Garden song sound cool. Yes, Savage Garden. And yes, cool. And yet the judges roundly criticised him! I couldn't believe it. I mean, he made a Savage Garden song sound cool! This is an enormous feat. And not one judge offered him the congratulations he so deserved. Rather, they gave him backhanded compliments about how pretty he was and how far he would go. Dicks. What the fuck do they know? They applaud utter crap. Kelly, the 'rock chick' [as if! I mean, she sings Evanescence and Killing Heidi songs for fuck's sake] sang atrociously, and still they told her she was great. Okay, so a few weeks ago she kicked arse with a Led Zeppelin song, but that was the song more than anything else. I am getting so god darned sick of hearing Marcia's 'critique' of her performances too, which never diverts from either "You are a rock chick. Congratulations", or "You are an individual. Congratulations". She has a keen eye, that Marcia. And Mark bleeding Holden, what a cunt. If he says "man, you know how much I hate to agree with Dicko, but..." one more freaking time. Okay! We get it! You are manufacturing a rivalry to make yourself seem relevant! WE GET IT! YOU DON'T HAVE TO SAY IT EVERY SINGLE FUCKING TIME! AAAAGGHHH! Please, just stop the freakin charade. It's too fucking irritating. That's the major downside of Australian Idol. The utter cringing falseness. I mean, Mark is not a 'hip to the young folk' dude, man. He is a 'try-hard fogey' if ever there was one. And he doesn't help anybody. And Marcia is not the damn 'mother hen' either [and she really needs to have a serious talk with her wig-maker]. She offers nothing substantial in the way of advice, or analysis. She ain't preparing nobody for nothing and she is seriously coasting. Dicko at least sees a variety of potential in each of the performers, has some accurate smarts about his evaluations, and is less likely to trot out the pap of his cohorts. He's the only bearable judge. Sometimes likeable, and even laudable. He's not even harsh, which is the false though much-repeated allegation. Anyway, there's just this stamp of crap and 'role filling' behaviour all over the joint, in contestants and judges alike. It's totally shitty. But hey, I still tune in on Sunday nights. For all this trouble, Guy had better win.

The other buzz show of note is Queer Eye For The Straight Guy which I absolutely love. It just makes me happy and I go "hee hee" all the way through. My brother even told me that it feels like he's getting an injection of joy into his arm each time the show starts. This may be because the show immediately follows Idol, but whatever. The way he put it was that Queer Eye, like, lifts away the fog and blankness brought on by other crap. You just look forward to hanging out with these guys. And I was thinking about it, and I am not in the least bit blown away by the brilliance of their makeover suggestions. That's not the appeal of the show. The 'Fab Five' make this show a joy, and they do it without really delivering any dazzlingly astute tips that display any rare style acumen on their part. I mean, it's been more a case of "Hairy? Get rid of the hair", and "Glasses? Why not try contacts?", and "Dirty apartment? Let's clean it up", and "Old clothes? Let's get some new ones". They really don't do that much, and there's not much invention to what they do do, other than entertain them and our selves. Hairstyle guy Kyan's default position is to advise the heteros to 'work the product in from the back, and give it one final jooj just before you leave the house'. Food guy Ted's advice about wine in restaurants didn't extend past 'waft it and smell the bouquet'. Carsen buys clothes. He's hilarious, but is sometimes too 'Oprah make-over' [ie. bad square leather jackets] for my taste. By the way, I cannot wait for that episode when the guys feature on Oprah. It is thankfully inevitable. Sweet. Anyway, Carsen finds them some good jeans, and so acquits himself. And even though I love 'culture vulture' Jai and he's cute as a button and an excellent and indispensable member of the group, all I have seen him do over the first two weeks is to print some cards, tell a guy to 'circulate the room making sure to establish eye contact and talk to everyone, but not for too long', and then show another guy how to make plunger coffee. A whole episode went by, a whole day, in which an apartment and back courtyard [in the Lower East side of Manhatten, god damnit. Shit shit. My envy will kill me] was redecorated, and all Jai had done was visited a coffee shop, smelled some beans, let us in on a little 'secret' about the longevity and flavour virtues of buying beans whole rather than pre-ground, bought some beans, and then inducted the straight guy into the heady and sophisticated world of plunger coffee. This is how he filled his 'culture' brief! Plunger coffee! But I don't care. He's great. They're all great. And the quips just keep on coming. And Thom the interior designer actually does some work, which makes for a satisfying ending. Yay. Warm and friendly and manages, by virtue of its tone and camaraderie, to avoid the irritating crapness of other such shows. Yay.

Sunday, October 05, 2003

Though I am well aware that I am no St Augustine, I have tended to treat this blog as a confessional. Well, today the urge to purge has struck again. It is Sunday after all. I have been wrestling with this particular shame for some weeks now, hoping that it would diminish into a passing fancy. But to no avail. I feel the time has come when I must admit that I really really like the music of Sean Paul. Eeeek. I mean, have you seen that film clip where they're all in the basement and the song is just fab and the dancing's even fabber? Man that kills me. I love it. It's scary, man. I like his music. And he's not even good-looking! In fact, he's most probably a dick-face loser man, but it don't matter cos dem tunes are kickin, bwoy-ee. I never really got into the whole Shaggy thing, but I find the Sean Paul take on the matter quite appealing. He's a superstar on the make. I'm not joking. I perk up when I hear his songs. It's quite undeniable. And did I mention that he's not even good-looking! This is so unlike me.

Oh, and Guy, can I just confirm absolutely your theory about the unknowing gay subtext [or is it supertext? It's really quite unmissable] of Emannuel Carrella's "hush hush, don't say a word, sound carries in the night, carries in the nigh-ee-ight.... you cannot speak my name, you cannot speak my name" song. Someone's been reading the poetry of Lord Alfred Douglas, eh? Not to mention all the "can't breathe gotta run gotta hide, from what we need" stuff. This song never made any sense to me before. But now its clarity is unimpeachable. My particular favourite aspect of the song, though, is Emmanuel's 'gritty' spoken word moments, especially when he begins the song with "each day passes by in a blurry haze like a tape that's being played at the wrong speed". He speaks the truth yo, and in a language that us discontented young folk can understand.

Thursday, October 02, 2003

You would not be wrong if you had concluded that I watch television with the mindset that everything that appears on it is put there for my particular benefit. The TV and I are one, you know. It serves me, and only me, and in return, no-one gets it like I do. This isn’t something I ruminate on very frequently. It’s just a given, you know. Something on my mind? A conundrum to resolve? No worries. TV will provide. It happens like clockwork. For example, I think that David Letterman should have a baby, and, hey presto, the TV provides [okay, so Dave’s not having it with Amy Sedaris as I had hoped, but, still, it’s not a bad return]. The TV and I have been helpfully, but quite detachedly, communing in this manner for months [okay, years] now. And it’s been working out great. Or so I thought.

You see, I think the TV has taken our ‘relationship’ a little more seriously than necessary. Perhaps my constant attention and presence has given him the wrong idea? Perhaps I should have verbalised my needs more effectively, so that we could have established workable boundaries, and such. But I made the mistake of thinking that we understood one another, without the crudeness of words. I had thought that we were, as they say, on the same wavelength. You see, usually our communication occurs thusly. He telecasts information and programming of a variety broad enough to hoodwink the masses into believing that their needs can be met by TV too [fools!], when really, what he’s doing is acting as my helpmate in life by providing for all my needs and queries in a ‘seemingly’ random way. He’s a treasure, and I value him highly, but I really thought he understood that we could never be, nor should we be, more than what we are to each other. I mean, no-one wants to be co-dependent, bro. Chillax.

I never had any cause for concern about the intensity of his feelings for me until tonight. Oh, I used to breezily [thoughtlessly! Oh how could I have been so thoughtless?] say things like “Wow. It’s like you’re speaking directly to me”, and such, but that was just to keep him sweet. And I figured that he had cultivated a sensibility of my tone by now, you know? But maybe that’s just it. Maybe he loves my tone so much that he wants to tell the world, to blow the cover off our long-held secret, and hang the consequences. Because he’s been alarmingly less than subtle recently. Tonight, I was re-watching tonight’s episode of CNNNN so that I could read the newsbar, and I got a little creeped out by TV’s interest in my life. You see, earlier in the evening, I’d been on the phone to my mum [and within TV’s earshot] when we were talking about the Journalism Entrance Test that I have to sit tomorrow [and do well on] for any hope of a palatable future life. And mum was telling me to make sure I went to bed [you know, to my actual bed rather than the couch] to ensure a good night’s sleep so that I would be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on the morrow. So imagine my discomfort when this appeared on the actual newsbar of CNNNN; “Eleanor, listen to your mum, go to bed”. Shit!!!! Okay, so he spelled my name wrong, but some of my closest friends make the same mistake. So lets get back to the “ohmygod” factor here. OH… MY… GOD!! The TV is talking to me! And I actually mean this literally now. He knew I would be watching the show, and he planted a direct message into it. Who else could it be for? How many other Eleanors are there in this world who have mothers who told them to go to bed on the very night that the same request was beamed straight into their lounge at a time when they should by rights have been in bed were they really serious about an early start? Huh? Answer me that. Boy, he seriously overstepped his authority on this one. Imagine, exhorting me to change my lifestyle and habits on the night when it was most advantageous to do so? The cheek! We are seriously on the rocks. I don’t need that kind of interfering pressure from the likes of him. We’re just longtime companions. Get it, buddy? You’ve got no right to go all blatant on me and puncture the illusion we have been working under for so long. Sheeesh. The nerve. The creepiness.

I really think he’s getting a little unhealthy in his regard for me. You know, of the “if I can’t have her, no-one can” school of unhealthy regard. Because, no sooner had I reacted a little tensely to his first communiqué, than he lobbed a more aggressive one into my lap. I was casually flicking through some channels, trying to rationalise that “Eleanor, listen to your mum, go to bed” was probably just a friendly prank perpetrated by a well-meaning and well-connected friend whose identity I couldn’t put my finger on. While I was arguing with myself that this was “far-fetched. Oh yeah? Far-fetched compared to what? The TV having designs on me?”, I landed upon 101 Things Removed From The Human Body. Now, if you’ll here me out, I’ll prove to you that this clearly signals TV’s intent to manipulate me into a position where he can have me all to himself. I think he’s seeking a declaration from me, or something. He tried to do the whole mature “if you love someone, you’ll let them go, and then they’ll come back Indecent Proposal-style” attempt at defining the relationship [you know, he really does want me to pursue my dreams]. And when that failed to elicit a response from me, he went all “go crazy so she’ll notice and address it one way or the other” act of desperation. You see, 101 Things Removed From The Human Body was clearly designed to freak me out. It’s an entire hour of gruesome anecdotes detailing the dangers of every conceivable object around you. It’s like he’s saying, “Elanor, why leave the house? Strike that. Why even leave the couch? Look at all the horrors that occur outside the periphery of my protective flickering glow. Do you really want to leave me?” He would know that I would be extra-sensitive to such arguments at the moment, because he would also know that I watched Final Destination 2 this week, which is a whole movie dedicated to the explication of the inexhaustible potential for fatality in our everyday lives [particularly if “Death itself” happens to be actively pursuing us in our everyday lives]. Death-traps galore. Everywhere. TV tricked me into watching 101, plying me with the expectation of a “rectal foreign bodies” fest, only to slam me from the get-go with spikes and planks and fenceposts and all these bad ideas about slipping over and impaling myself with various common objects. He’s a nasty piece of work, and I feel that he violated our bond tonight. I don’t know how I am ever going to get back to that great place where we were at before he went ahead and ruined it all. I just had to come and talk to you, Computer. I feel like you’re the only one I can confide in about our problems at the moment. I’m not over-reacting am I? He really fucked up, didn’t he? I feel like I really need to re-evaluate the signals I send out. In any case, we really need some distance. But he's here all the time! Geez, it’s gonna be awkward.

Wednesday, October 01, 2003

Tonight, TV land provided a flurry of hilarious malapropisms [I think that's the word]. One of the Temptation Island ladies was complaining that the guys chose to "conversate" with other girls. And then, one of the Meet My Folks guys was explaining that his failure to belch during a family meal was a result of the scarcity of "carbon-dated beverages". Chortle chortle chortle.