A Sorry Excuse For A Song.

Feel like saying farewell and good luck to my erstwhile and lovely Tuesday Breakfast and Women on the Line co-host, Beck, who did her last 3CR brekky with us this morning. She is off to live in The Americas, you see. In Charlotte, North Carolina, to be precise. Because she don't wanna wait for her life to be over. She wants to know right now, what will it be? She don't wanna wait for her life to be over. Well in the end, oh will it be ... sorry. Doo do do doo. Doo do do doo. Doo do do doo.

Things I Underlined In A Book.

I've been reading a book for about seven months now. As you can probably tell, I haven't been reading it much. Because I am a bad person. A very bad person. I mean, even the attractions of possibly one of the best books ever written cannot prevent my profligacy. Even though it is A Confederacy Of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. Even though when I do read it, I find it terrifically enjoyable.

Getting to the point, I'm one of those people who has to buy books because I like to underline the bits I particularly like. In pen.

A few weeks ago, I underlined this. Because I REALLY REALLY LIKE IT. And I am determined to use it as an expression, just you wait:


boffo smash. Makes me happy. Let's do something about it.

Anyways, diverting from the point, I laughed violently hard yesterday. And I would like to relate the incident to you. I was on the couch with my little brother, explaining to him that I'd screwed up my Windows XP in a fit of deletion last year and the night before had finally decided to fix it. Which meant reinstalling the thing to factory settings. Which meant wiping my C:drive. My purpose in informing him of this was to convey that he needn't be alarmed. I had taken measures to protect most of the precious cargo (my music library) by moving it onto the D:drive. I just wanted to give him a heads up that if he found we were missing some songs, it was because there hadn't been space enough to save them. But they could easily be reloaded, so just don't freak out, yeah? Anyway, this is how I conveyed the information: "So don't worry. I wiped my C:drive, but the D:drive was unaffected by the reinsatllaion, okay? I only wiped my C:drive." He responded by raising his eyebrows at me and taking a pointed sip of his tea. Which to me signified that he had detected some kind of wrongness. So I went, "What?... What? Did you not understand me? Everything is fine. I didn't muck up our lives. It's all okay. I only wiped my C:drive. Simon. Don't you believe me? Is this making sense to you? I only wiped my C:drive. Not my D:drive. My C:drive." To which he responded by spluttering into his tea with mirth. Again, I was flummoxed. And just looked at him in a confused manner. I think he waited some moments in deference to my supposed 'quickness', giving me the opportunity to figure it out for myself. But I just kept looking at him, all wide-eyed and searching, and eventually, he took pity. "Yes, Elanor. I get it. You don't need to keep saying it. I get it. You wiped your... C:drive."

AAHAAHAAAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

I almost spewed from the hilarity.


Anyways, getting back to the point, here is another thing I underlined in a book. The same book as before:


It is full of gems like that.

No Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

Which is a shame.

This is a low.

And a first.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs are in town and I don't get to see them. I want to hurt someone.

Additionally, my self-pity today was exacerbated by a cold, a raging headache, and my office window's constant outlook onto the Forum Theatre across the road. All. Day. Long. Insensitive brute. I mean, couldn't the building have moved somewhere else for today. So rude.

Character. Is. Everything.

There was a time when Timothy Olyphant was nothing to me. That time is gone.

“I stand before you a married man.”

OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.

And that’s just one line. You should have seen how he delivered his greeting. “Evening…” FUCKING. HELL.

And that’s just him speaking. You should watch him close a door and then silently stare and stare and stare at it. It’s fucking powerful and internally tumultuous and HOT. And he has his back to the camera the whole time. And he’s just staring and staring and (we must assume) staring at that door with his knuckles pressed hard against it and OH. SWEET. FUCK.

Deadwood. Is making me lose my mind a bit, it's that good. Oh my, IT'S... JUST... SO... GOOD. And it makes possible things you were quite certain were not possible. For example, who would have thought that there could be only one resounding interpretation to the spectacle of a man beating a woman’s father to a pulp on a saloon floor? Further, who would have thought that singular interpretation would be… “Whoah! A public declaration of love!” Further than that, who would have thought, watching that, you would find yourself (wincing, yes, but mostly just) completely convinced that the man giving the beating is a GOOD man. In fact, the BEST MAN EVER. And not because of a causality of events or a righteousness or because you have vindictive feelings about the man receiving the beating. But because, gah! I can’t explain it. It’s just THE SHOW. I mean, you even remain convinced he is a good man while you’re watching him stone the brains out of a Sioux. OF A SIOUX. And sure, you wish he wasn’t doing that, but it certainly doesn’t shake your foundations about his worth as a person. I am not kidding. Seriously, the people who make this show have such TOUCH. And there’s not a clumsy or manipulative thing in it. You feel like you know the characters down to their bones, yet they are still full of surprise and delight and revelatory instances. I don’t know how it happens, but you can feel what a man is feeling when he walks back out onto the street after beating a woman’s father to a bloody pulp, because you can see the shame and purpose in his very gait. It’s just WONDERFUL. And it’s not simply because of Timothy Olyphant’s character (let’s just call him Seth Bullock, because HE’S REAL). Somehow, you feel for and ache about each and every character. Oh, these characters. I JUST HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS FOR THEM. I mean, The Doc (WHAT A GUY!), and Sol (DITTO), and Dan, and Trixie, and Alma, and Jewel (SHE’S SO FUNNY) and the tragic Preacher, and Charlie - and what about that General who came to camp. Especially the hilariously exasperated way he said “Oh my god” when the newspaperman wanted to double-check about accurately noting down the speech he delivered (which was about the vengeful slaughter of a whole camp of Sioux men, women and children, by the way) – and let’s not forget Al, and even E.B. Yes, even E.B! Again, IT’S THE SHOW. And it’s SO GOOD. Indeed I have to pause it sometimes just so that I can sit back and breathe and say, “THIS SHOW IS SO GOOD.” Because it BEGS TO BE SAID AND CANNOT BE DENIED. See, along with all the cold, hard death-dealing, there is such a seam of goodness running through it on its own terms, and so many interchanges that spark a warm thrilling sensation in me and electrify my internal organs and make me vibrate with emotion. And I am just compelled to savour them over and over again. And still, repeated viewings can’t diminish the thing. Sigh.

I have a problem now, though. I find I cannot move on from Season One. The last two episodes are just so immensely good that it seems a pity to leave them. Watching them is a spiritually enriching experience. No, I am not overstating that shit. So I just keep watching them again and again, not daring to risk disturbing my glowing happiness about them by beginning on Season Two. So I’m stuck in a good place.


OTHER THINGS.

I bought two CDs the other day, which are awesomeness:

Kimya Dawson, Remember That I Love You

Johnny Cash, American V: A Hundred Highways *


* “God’s Gonna Cut You Down” could not BE a better thing. That is all.



UPDATE

DAMNIT. Season Two has made me cry. DAMN. IT.

Forgot to mention Fiery Furnaces.

Have been using internet for the sole purpose of downloading Deadwood, so excuse this post for not dripping with currency. But yes, I did go and see The Fiery Furnaces on Friday night at the East Brunswick Club. Of course I am happy about this. It was the third time I've seen them.

Some things:

1. This time their arrangements favoured an undercurrent of heavy guitar sounds and individual songs played with breaks in between them. For some reason I found this revolutionary, or at least, I noted that it was a change from interweaving different songs into one longer jam (which I think only happened once this time). Also, they spoke a bit. You know, in between songs. Again, it seemed revolutionary to me.

2. In previous gigs, I have fixated on Eleanor, or on the hot drummer, but this time around, the drummer didn't seem so hot (a different person? I don't know. Still blonde, but just not... the same). Eleanor was still a focus, but being on the opposite side of the stage to her made me realise that I have completely ignored Matthew all this time, and he seems such a nice and gentle man.

3. Case in point (of the above): Gig Highlight #1. See, in between the early songs, a dude at the very front kept shouting out "TROPICAL!.... TROPICAAAL". After this had happened a few times, the band finished a song they were playing and Matthew pre-empted the dude by saying, "Hey dude. You. Dude. We're going to play your song. Just a little later." And I thought it was very nice of Matthew to give the guy a heads up. It made me laugh, though, when the dude responded to this kindness with another bleary "TROPICAAAL..." and Matthew nodded and said, "Yes. Later." Warm but firm.

4. Gig Highlight #2 - OR "When a cheap coincidence makes Elanor feel superior to, and more 'connected' than, the TROPICAAAL dude". See, I don't yell out song suggestions. I'm a very reserved person, especially in public spaces. My brother and I look like unfeeling rigid people at gigs. We just like to be very attentive, which seems to cancel out diversions such as movement or vocalisation indicating, well, anything. It's a bit creepy. So yes, I don't yell stuff out. I just silently plead with intensity. In my head. For the band to play a song I want. So anyway, at one point during Friday's gig, it struck me that the song I wanted to hear next was Waiting To Know You. And I had barely finished formulating "Hmmm, I hope they play Waiting To Know You, next", when they fucking started playing it. And in my immaturity, I remember actually thinking this thought: "Ha. Some people don't need to yell. Losers." Or some shit. Anyway, they played a nice mix from across all the albums. I was particularly happy to hear Single Again.

5. Gig Highlight full stop. Was Black-Hearted Boy. It was the best.

Nods approvingly.

Mel has written a thoughtful response to what happened in the Big Brother house on the weekend. Do check it out.

The other response I enjoyed was a comment on Ms Fits' site from Audrey, who not only made good points, but also funnies:

"I can take a joke, I just don't want to be slapped in the face with one."

Good things.

Symposiasts Period Romance

Our Period Romance has been revived after about a two year hiatus. For those who don’t know, Guy and I tandem write a ridiculous romance fiction without regard to taste, sense or history. Guy got the ball rolling again with the most recent instalment the other week and so now it is my turn to make an addition. To get you up to speed, here is where Guy left us:

"Fermina emptied the contents of the bag onto the sodden mattress. Out fell a bar of soap, a cheaply embroidered red dress, a string of pearls and… she gasped… a battered tiara, similar to those worn by the prostitutes she was once able to spy through her bedroom window at Le Denetrione. Was she about to face what she feared all along? Was this to be her sorry fate? Immediately, she felt light-headed, Aware that she was losing consciousness, she slapped herself hard on the face: 'NO, Fermina. Not this time. I am a survivor. I am not going to give up. I am not going to stop. I am going to work harder. I am a survivor. I am going to make it. I am a survivor. Keep on surviving.' The words came to her as if in a dream. She would survive this.

There was a knock on the door…"

And now, it continues.


Alejandro's sleepless mind veered between wearied anguish and frantic panic. To observers, this internal agitation – at times verging on hysteria, truth be told - would have been undetectable. Those who knew him well might have noticed that his eyes had darkened to pitch, if they were observant. But his self-possession was so profoundly ingrained in his manner that even the traces of these most tumultuous days of his life hadn’t pierced the toughness of his façade. It had been a week since he had aided Fermina's escape at the city walls of Madrid. He had continued his journey to the coast, keeping up the pretense that she remained ensconced in the carriage – precious cargo to be delivered to the captain of Las Castellenata for transport to a desolate island convent. Alejandro had paid for the captain’s silence, and would have feared for the safety of the souls on board after the imperiling night of drinking and raging his coin had furnished, were his mind not completely occupied with the urgent need to get back to Madrid and locate Fermina. Every moment he thought of her alone in that city sent a violent jolt through his tensed body. After finally assisting the slumping but still interminably yarning captain up the gangplank to collapse into a group of swabbers, Alejandro sprang back to the carriage to begin the dash to Madrid. He arrived there in the early hours, his seat bruised by the rough roads and the carriage’s furious speed. Returning to the city and to Count Daza’s household, Alejandro was less concerned about his master’s fury should he discover the manservant’s duplicity than he was with Fermina’s safety. The duplicity went on undetected, but he had now been searching Madrid’s lowly quarters for three days and nights and was haggard with worry about his inability to find her. In the midst of this haze he found himself out late at night, walking along an out-of-the-way street that was not unfamiliar to him. With an almost habitual regularity, he seemed to find himself here when he could no longer bear alone the agonising pang of his ardent love for Fermina, which threatened to cut his heart out from the inside. Cursing his weakness, Alejandro disappeared into a nearby doorway under the blush of a red lantern.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The door of Fermina’s cell swung open and once again she was faced with the merry twinkling eyes of her captor. “What a sight you are,” he said, taking in her garb. “Come along, Oranges. We’re putting you to work.”

Fermina remained where she was. A look of irritation flashed across his face. She found it mirrored her own. “You can’t have expected me to follow you blindly, captive or not. Now tell me - where am I, who are you, and what ‘work’ are you putting me to?”

“I’m not obliged to tell you anything at all. There is no ‘captive or not’. There is just captive. And you are ours. We have housed and fed you for a week, now we’ve clothed you –

“Housed and fed me! –“

“Housed, fed AND clothed you. Which we did out of the goodness of our hearts… and the expectation of a pay day. And now you’ve stopped stuffing your face long enough to tell us that you are Lona Francisca from Valencia, and NOT the daughter of Count Daza as we thought. By all accounts, that prize piece left on Las Castellenata four days ago. We’ve had girls go that way, and they never return to Madrid. So now we’re stuck with you. A nobody. And we are quite put out. And you owe us for the trouble we’ve taken. So we’re putting you to work.”

“If I’m so much trouble you could just let me go.”

“You’re only trouble to us because you’re not working. Right now, you’re a drain. And an unused asset. That’s wasteful. We abhor waste. And we run a business to which you are undoubtedly suited. If only by your sex.”

“What business is that?”

“Whores of course.”

Fermina was shocked. And fearful. She felt like a little girl who had only just discovered she was surrounded by adults, and wasn’t as mature as she thought she was. Then, without meaning to, she said the first silly and childish and naïve thing that came in to her head. “Oh. It’s just that the pies were so good, I thought…”

He seemed to smile for a moment, and gave her a softening look. “Ha, well. As far as the city fathers want to know, we are a bakery. Of course they know otherwise. And I suppose we are a bakery too. But really, it’s whores.”

“And I am to go with you now with my pearls and tiara and red dress and be a…?

“God no! We have no idea about you. My goodness child! We don’t want you upsetting the customers. I mean, you may turn out to be a profitable acquisition for us. Who knows? It’s always hard to tell at the beginning. But you’ll be cleaning the rooms until we can trust you enough to do the real work. So come along, Oranges.”

Feeling that danger was now more distant, Fermina found herself flooded with relief and compliantly attentive to her employer’s instructions as she followed him through a complicated network of decreasingly ramshackle halls. Eventually, he left her in a circular room onto which five red doors and one brown door opened. She had entered through the brown door. They were presently all closed. Before he had left her there, her captor had been quite emphatic that she not attempt to open any of them, especially the red ones. Also, it was essential, he had made plain, that she keep the cauldron of scented water in the centre of the room at a rolling boil at all times. There were lines strung across the room at different points, upon which soft heavy cloths hung drying, and on the floor there was a hamper of folded cloths of various colours, ready to be put to some use. A hatch in the floor connected her, she had been told, to the kitchen and laundry, and she was to yell down any orders for food, drinks, towels or other comforts and deliver them to the rooms IF REQUESTED. Requests would be made by the whores on behalf of the customers. She was to help the whores in any way they asked. They would let her know what she was to do. And so, Fermina de la Saint Amour found herself all alone at some nexus point in a Madrid whorehouse, waiting for a whore to appear. And eventually, one did.

“You’re new,” she said.

“I am,” Fermina replied shyly.

“Hmmm, very new. I’m Dolores. People cal me Dolly. You’re people now, so you can do the same. Could you hand me one of those cloths? Mine are the blue ones. What’s our resident Great Wit calling you?”

“Oranges, I think. It was Contessa but I think he’s mad about that now. Er sorry. Hello, I’m Lona. Um…” Fermina was quite flustered. She had passed a thick blue cloth to Dolly. And then Dolly had done something entirely unexpected. With bored efficiency, she had dunked all but a corner of the cloth into the boiling scented water, hitched up her skirt and with the now steaming wet cloth given her nethers a bracing once over. She’d then casually thrown the used swab back into the cauldron.

“Leave that in there a minute and then hang it with the rest. I’m going out for a break but I’ll be going in there shortly,” she said, pointing to one of the red doors. Fermina followed her every move with astonishment, and just kept nodding at Dolly’s instructions. “He’s in there already, but the room’s a bit messed up because we’ve been without one of you for a few days. So go in and clean up. Replace the old towels with fresh ones. And bring the poor man a beer. Aw, don’t fret, pet. I wouldn’t ask you to go in with a man in there, this being your first night and all. But he’s harmless. Lovely really. He comes in sometimes, tries to forget someone he’s desperately in love with. You’ll get used to him. You’ll come to appreciate him, really. Usually just passes out from the pain of it all. Very intense.”

At this point she seemed to lose her thought, but came out of her reverie upon sighting Fermina’s overwhelmed face. “Relax girl. He won’t try anything. Only troubled me once, and it was no trouble, let me tell you.”

Dolly departed through the brown door with a friendly wink in Fermina’s direction. Fermina, trying to keep her head together, decided to focus on simple tasks. She fished the blue cloth out of the cauldron and hung it out to dry. She lifted the hatch door. It took a while for her to find her voice, but eventually she yelled tentatively, “BEER. TOWELS?” And was greeted with “RIGHTO” from the steamy noisy murk below. She heard a pulley jerking, and a platform laden with the requisite BEER. TOWELS? jolted gradually up towards her. She pulled them through the hatch and turned to face the door. There was a man behind that door. A man in a whorehouse. Behind that door.

As she entered the room she heard snatches of manful groggy singing coming from the occupant splayed out on the linen-shrouded bed. She couldn’t make out all the words, muffled as they were by his face being buried in his pillow. Additionally, the tune was often rent by powerful sobs. Fermina gently shut the door behind her so as not to be detected, and went about in the darkness of the room, placing the fresh towels and a tankard of beer on the table at the foot of the bed. As she scoured the room and scooped up laundry, she paid close attention to the intelligible scraps of his mournful tune which served as an accompaniment to her activity:

My poverty revealed,
I would like to try your charity
Until you cry, "Now you must try my greed."
And everything depends upon
How near you sleep to me
……..

I stand in ruins behind you,
I love to see you naked over there
Especially from the back.
………

So let me judge your love affair
In this very room
Where I have sentenced mine to death.
……..

Just take this longing from my tongue
All the lonely things my hands have done.
Untie for me your hired gown,
Like you would do for one that you love.

Like you would do for one that you love.

There was silence then. Fermina turned and saw the man was watching her. Well, she assumed he was. As much as she could tell in the dark and separated by the diaphanous curtain hung around the bed, he seemed to be sitting up with his head turned in her direction. In a voice cracked with trouble and regret he said, “Love me. Love me. Say that you love me.”

I've got one word to say to you, Gretel.

WEAK.

Drawing Restraint 9

Nice use of fabrics. And shells. And liquids that set... Darling, this sushi is just delicious. Do try it. Oh darling, you know very well that's not sushi. It's part of my leg.

Supreme Court RULES.

Yippee! And they weren't cunty about it!

THE US Supreme Court has ruled that the military commissions set up by the Bush Administration to try Guantanamo Bay detainees, including David Hicks, are illegal and have to be abandoned...

It means that at the very least, the Pentagon will have to set up standard courts martials for detainees, with all the protections afforded by US law.

Well, maybe they were a bit cunty:

The court ruled that the Administration had the right to detain the prisoners held at Guantanamo, but ruled that if they were to be tried, it had to be through regular court martials.

But let's not think about that now. Let's think about how Guantanamo means fuckedness, and even dickheads are now realising this. The dickhead in point: KOCHIE. My brother informs me that this morning on Sunrise he was making good, obvious, decent points about Guantanamo being fucked. Yes. KOCHIE. Now now, don't freak out about this intersection of good and evil. Instead, think about it this way. The Guantanamo thing is such an affront to justice that there is now a status penalty for supporting it - namely, being worse than Kochie. It's a sobering thought, people.

Tristram Shandy : A Cock & Bull Story.

YES.

Bloggers On The Radio.

I'm filling in for the Monday Breakfast Show on 3CR tomorrow morning, and I'll be playing my recording of Guy, Jess, Ruth, Mel, Agent and Jelly talking about blogging. It's about 30 minutes long and I'll be putting it on at 7.10am, so tune in to 855AM in Melbourne for the shit.

The Sounds Of Children Playing.

Was just having a cigarette in my backyard, and overheard some odd things from the mouths of babes playing in the yard diagonally behind mine. I'm not sure exactly what they were doing, but it sounded like they were appointing roles for a game they were playing. Anyway, this is what I heard, in the manner of Duck, Duck, Goose:

"Arsehole, fag, faggot, nun. Oh, you're a hypocrite Maddy. You're a hypocrite. Maybe you're the dumbest and stupidest person in the world. NO. You're a BANANA."

And then a chorus of giggles, etc. Good times, good times.

Women on the Line Trivia Night

Please do come along and help us raise money for 3CR's Radiothon.

WHEN: Wednesday 21 June @ 7.30pm
WHERE: Upstairs at Vibe on Smith, 123 Smith St Fitzroy
WHAT: A trivia night, obviously. All the questions relate to women, so test your knowledge. Ausculture Jess will be the MC so it should be a fun night.
ENTRY: $15
WHY: To raise our portion of money for 3CR's Radiothon and support community radio's national women's current affairs program / keep women's voices on the air! etc, etc, and more such wank. I am so tired of spruiking. But you should definitely come, is all.

"Since I'm already screwed, here's a message to you: My heart's wide open..."

We have been waiting for many many years for Paris Hilton's album to hit us and cause our brain stem to explode, a wait that has been made cruel and torturous by Paris' own quite constant public claims, in response to questions about what she actually does, that "I'm working on my album." Hearing this over and over in the past few years, I have in some weaker moments been moved to scream, "BUT WHEN IS IT COMING OUT, WOMAN?" It seems, however, that the day IS approaching, and I have been listening to some of the bounty. The brilliant lyric I chose to title this post is from her song Screwed, and yes, it's quite genius, no? We are, however, a bit more worried about Paris' navigation of modern sexual mores, if we are correct in extrapolating her mindset from the lyrics in the single, Stars Are Blind. Particularly, we are quite taken with the pathos and yearning and schoolyard level coquetry of:

"If you show me real love baby, I'll show you mine."

Which we think is just very very sad. What an innocent she is. We are worried she may get her feelings hurt by engaging in such quid pro quo.

Here is another song, Don't Touch It:

"Don't touch it, you ain't bawdy [or, "bought it"?]
You can have a look but you can't afford it.
Don't push it, don't rush it,
You can have a look but you just can't touch it."

Worrisome. Also, we cannot quite believe that it is Paris singing the vocal on Bye Bye Boy. We believe there may have been a mix up on The Internets. Indeed, when I heard it, I exclaimed, "But, she can't talk that fast!"

ALERT: Paris will be appearing on Letterman on June 12. But WILL SHE PERFORM [musically, that is]? Obviously, THIS MUST BE WATCHED.

Get some fucking perspective, you insane fucking cunt.

Three men have killed themselves at Guantanamo Bay. And do you know why? If you thought it was due to the torment of being detained for years and years without charge, you'd be wrong. See:

Navy Rear Admiral Harry Harris, commander of Guantanamo, told a news conference the suicides were an act of warfare.

"They are smart. They are creative, they are committed. They have no regard for life, neither ours nor their own. I believe this was not an act of desperation, but an act of asymmetrical warfare waged against us," Harris said.

I. Hate. You.

It appears I haven't been entirely fair to the Catholic faith.

And I've been informed of this by email (subject line: Have You got any idea?). So, in case any of you are weak minded and have been led astray by me on this matter, let me just set you all straight, as soundly as I have been.

Greetings whoever you may be,

some how got onto your stupid site, and stumbled across your take of the new Pope Benedict (Ratzinger). Let me just ask you "Who on earth are you to make such unqualified views (statements) which, by the way are totally fucked up". I'm not an ideal Catholic by the way,a pretty bad one in fact.... But when I read such senseless rubbish, I get fucken mad.

You have no idea who the new Pope is, but make a statement that "he sucks". Well let me tell you, your the sucker mate. Your narrow minded, and totally ignorant to the stance the catholic church has in terms of morality. Before you say that the catholic church is narrow minded and totally ignorant to todays issues, just remember that to succumb to these ideals would be allot easier than to challenge them morally.

So you'd like it if the church say's it is o.k to have sex before marriage and have countless partners. You'd like it if the church say's it is o.k to get married countless times. Is it o.k to have homosexual relations? Well the church does not question homosexual love, but homosexual sex as it is outside the sanctity of marriage (just like heterosexual sex before marriage) and it is self gratification without a means of procreation (likewise having heterosexual sex with a condom).

This view is not ignorant and narrow minded.... Why can't all you dumb asses look beyond, and think a little deeper. It would be very easy to agree to all these modern lifestyle ideals, and be in line with the modern view....but to challenge them takes guts... and the world needs a moral institute such as the catholic church to draw the line somewhere.

You see, if we all practice celibacy until we got married and only had one sexual partner in our lifetime (husband or wife), we would wipe out AIDS, and all STD's in one generation. By saying condoms is o'k goes against this view, as it would condone sex before marriage.... As one would not need condoms within a marriage. Also, condoms do not stop the spread of HPV which is being spread in enormouse proportions, and as many as 1 in 4 people carry the virus. So the Catholic churches view in terms of sex before marriage and the non encouragement of use of condoms is righteouse. Condoms do not stop disease, celibacy does. Studies also reveal that as many as 45% of all condoms leak. Therefore, one must ask is it wise to encourage the use of something that may not be really that effective? The catholic churches views are all researched thoroughly, and rules are made to benefit morality and mankinds well being.

You'd be better barking mad at the governments who do nothing to stop the spread of AIDS in African countries, but rather spend huge amounts of money on military and weapons.

As for homosexual sex, one of the main reasons the catholic church is against such acts is because of the great poligamous lifestyle the gay community lead. That's one of the reasons gay sex is one of the leading factors of infections of AIDS in the western world. Therefore, the sanctity of marriage is undermined by the gay communities poligamous lifestyles. You should also remember that the catholic church does not close its doors on gay worshippers. They are all welcome to worship and take part in mass, and take holy communion. The catholic church is against gay sex as much as they are against heterosexual sex before marriage... no more or less.

By saying the catholic church is discriminatory against women is the biggest load of shit.... get your facts right before you make such a statement. This general view that the catholic church discriminates against women is propaganda at its best. Are you aware that Sainthood is the biggest honour the catholic church bestowes on human individuals? Are you not aware that as many female saints have been canonised as male saints. Are you not aware that a greater amount of female saints play a more major role in catholic faith than male saints. Australias only saint is a female (St. Mary Mackillop). St. Mary, St. Terese, St. Joan of Arc are just to name a few. Also, there are vocations for females which are equally important as male vocations. A female nun is not viewed as being lower in rank to a male priest. They both have different vocations, but both of equal importance in our faith. So how can you say that the catholic church discriminates against women?

Just one more thing..... Bet you'd never insult the Islamic faith or any of its leaders how you did insult the catholic faith and it's loved leader. Why? Because you would be shit scared and you would probably get killed.

Then ask yourself if it is wise to insult any faith?

No.

Because if you do it again, I will fucken find you and kick your head in. Like I said, I'm not a good example of a chrsitian, and i know that..... But I am sick to death of cunts like you insulting any faith with fucken wise ass remarks that bear no weight. You are not intelligent enough to even try challenge the leaders of any faith.

It makes me sick thinking about the poor souls who are weak, and would read your bullshit and be lead astray. I think it would be wise of you to add a paragraph of an apology in your web site for the things you said against Pope Benedict and the Catholic Faith.... And say that you are totally unqualified for such statements, and that you are really sorry for writing such shit.

If you don't do this.... you haven't heard the last of me.



--

Language Is A Virus.

Further proof that blog language infects all who are exposed to it, this morning during my Tuesday Breakfast Radiothon show, I referred, quite unintentionally, to the anti-terrorism laws passed last year as "Wrongtown". SO wrongtown.

3CR Radiothon.

It's Radiothon time again. This morning I did the Women on the Line Radiothon show, begging for cash. And I'll be doing it again tomorrow morning for the Tuesday Breakfast Show. So GIVE MONEY. I don't care if you've never listened to the show, hell, I don't care if you've never even heard of the show. YOU HAVE TO GIVE MONEY. To the 3CR Tuesday Breakfast Show. Please. Call (03) 94198377.

And keep the night of Thursday June 22nd free, because there will be a Women on the Line fundraiser. A trivia night. A womany trivia night. And you have to come. And don't fob me off with, "But where, Elanor?" I'll let you know as soon as I do. PUSHY.

UPDATE:
Ignore the above paragraph. AND HEED THIS ONE. Keep the night of WEDNESDAY JUNE 21 free, because there will be a Women on the Line fundraiser. A trivia night. A womany trivia night. And you have to come. To UPSTAIRS AT VIBE, 123 SMITH ST FITZROY, AT 7.30PM. It's $15, which is a lot, I know. But you are just money to us. VERY VERY NECESSARY MONEY.

Bloggerati.

Spent yesterday in the wonderful company of some bloggers having a BRILLIANT group discussion I recorded for this thing I'm doing at SBS at the moment. Was cracking up last night listening to ALL THE FUNNIES they made and going, "Hmmm, mmmm, yes you're so right" to all their HIGHLY INTELLIGENT observations. So thanks so much to Guy, Jess, Ruth, Mel, Agent and Jelly for bringing their brains. My dad was very impressed when he heard it, saying, "Jeez, there's more to this blogging lark than you would think. But seriously, Elanor, do your essay."

The gosh darn loveliness of LOW.

Sigh. Saw them tonight at the Corner Hotel, and found that when their voices converge, or when one of them holds a long pure clear note, or hits you with a subtle inflection, or does any one of a variety of other fine fine vocal things, it's like BOOM. Your eyes just prickle and well up. Because of The Beauty. Which is just so BIG. So I am very happy right now. Even if I was pleading silently with them all night to "play Closer", and they didn't. But people, if you are able to, seek out and secure tickets for Wednesday night's gig at the East Brunswick. Because then you will be happy too.

Message to Kate Holden:

Quit ruining my weekends. Please. Just. Stop.

Whitebait made me do it.

"It" being a Geographic Personality Test.

Test Results

Extroversion 40%
Emotional Stability 43%
Orderliness 36%
Accommodation 40%
Inquisitiveness 63%

Your sloan type is RLUEI
Your primary type is Unstructured

You are reserved, moderately moody, unstructured, egocentric, and intellectual, and may prefer a city which matches those traits.

The largest representation of your personality type can be found in the these U.S. cities: Albuquerque/Santa Fe, Salt Lake City, Charlotte, Richmond, Denver, Providence, Louisville, Washington DC, Austin, Harrisburg, San Antonio, Baltimore, Indianapolis and these international countries/regions Bulgaria, Canada, Brazil, Poland, Finland, Israel, Italy, Mexico, Hungary, Germany, France, Argentina, Portugal, Thailand, Switzerland, Spain, Russia

Curse you, Whitebait, for making me face the fact that I am as unstable as a Mormon. A MORMON, Whitebait.

Worse than that, I clicked on the 'type' links, for the larks and what not, but just check out how depressing a RLUEI is:

avoidant, withdrawn, not usually happy, does not believe in human goodness, loner, moody, avoids crowds, depressed, overwhelmed by unpleasant feelings frequently, agnostic/atheistic tendencies, unsure where life is going, impatient, avoids eye contact, does not think things work out for the best, discontent, negative, suspicious of others, uncooperative, socially uncomfortable, hard to get to know, not punctual, low self confidence, pessimistic, lonely, does not finish work on time, does not like to lead, attracted to things associated with sadness, ambivalent about the problems of others, feels defective, fears failure, often bored, ambivalent about the suffering of others, unproductive, avoids unnecessary interaction, easily frustrated, does not finish many things, lower energy level, focuses on fantasies instead of reality, ambivalent about the needs of others, easily annoyed, rarely prepared, disorganized, quiet around strangers, slow to forgive, hard to understand, not that interested in others, skeptical, wounded at the core, self absorbed

And an Unstructured:

more random than controlled, likes to look wierd, more in the clouds than grounded, more comfortable when things are imperfect, does not like the security of working for a company, does not feel best when working, likes to go to concerts, untraditional, more abstract than logical, impulsive, more likely to enjoy drinking and smoking, underachiever, prone to wanting a tattoo, bad with money, prone to petty theft, likes night life and crowds, more artistic than articulate, prefers the unfamiliar, can't do anything when they don't feel good, has love/hate relationship with most things, does not value organized religion, likes to be different, more likely to have been hyperactive as a child, prone to add or adhd, flakey, prone to missing appointments, finds ordinary tasks draining

It's also quite disturbing that neither type has any listed career prospects whatsoever, either favoured or unfavoured. YIKES. I HAVE PROBLEMS.

Marissa Nadler

Walking up High St on my way to the Northcote Social Club, I was commented upon by two generations of men. The first were late-middle-aged tradey looking types whose path I crossed while they were getting into their car. It was odd, but one of them acknowledged my presence with the statement, "The power of the pussy." Which I found mystifying. Was I supposed to respond by raising my fist? The second incident happened a few hundred metres further up the road. A group of young rev-heads waved that I should scurry across the road before they turned into it, and as their car passed behind me, out of the window came, "Girl, you fine." I'm sorry young man but you are quite clearly incorrect. Freak. And all I could think was, "What the hell is going on? I mean, I am wearing A CARDIGAN."

Anyway, I walked on and joined the collection of gentle people at the NSC. Marissa Nadler's appearance had touches of goth to it that I wasn't expecting in a New York folk artist. She said the crowd were much nicer than the people who usually yelled things at her in dive bars. She was charmingly unassuming and soft-spoken about the fact that all her songs are about rape, murder, death and heartbreak. Her singing was lovely, and Sylvia was particularly good.

Uselessly Out of Context.

Flicking around the TV channels last night, there were two moments of absolute comedy gold that had us splitting our britches with the hilarity of it all. However, trying to explain them in context is just too boring. Note: they are only hilarious in context. But trust me, these lines could not have been more funny:

1. "You could use glue... You could cut some off one of your mates."

2. "Eva was on a roll."

I am cracking up right now, just looking at them.


So, Marissa Nadler tonight at the Northcote Social Club.

Claire Fisher, O How She Rules.

From Six Feet Under a few minutes ago:

"What are you? Some kind of red-neck blogger pig?"

Sigh.

Photo Opportunity of Shame and Humiliation.

I'm at 3CR editing some things for tomorrow's Breakfast Show, and I think I just did something highly embarrassing. A photographer from the Melbourne Leader came by to take photos to promote our Radiothon, and I was coopted into mugging for the camera like a goon. Sitting in the studio making stupid 'comedy' faces while people thrust CDs and records at me. This is just terrifying.


But hey, if you do have to get up early in the morning and are inclined to listen, the line-up for tomorrow's show is as follows, approximately:

7.05am - We'll play my recording of the speech Dr Salam Ismael of Doctors For Iraq gave last Thursday night at the Voices For Peace public meeting.

7.30am - I'll be interviewing Jo Wainer about her book, Lost: Illegal Abortion Stories, and about her involvement in the history of abortion and reform in Victoria. On Thursday night there is a public forum in her honour at the Yvonne Bowden Auditorium (132 Grattan St, Carlton) at 6pm, for anyone who is interested [excluding the violently "pro-life", obviously].

7.45am - Co-host Alex will interview Herman Wainggai, one of the 42 West Papuan asylum-seekers who was granted temporary protection. He will be one of the speakers at a forum on Tuesday night, Pacific Prisons Are No Solution, at Trades Hall in Cartlon at 7pm, for anyone who is interested.

8.15am - Co-host Alex will interview David Manne, Refugee & Immigration Legal Centre, who has been representing the West Papuan refugees and will also speak at tomorrow night's forum.

I only mention it because I think these are people worth listening to.

Three Princes and a baby

Some delightful and entertaining things I learned from last night's [super exclusive and so in-depth I really had to sift through all the revelations] The Three Princes:

1. Charles likes Leonard Cohen.

2. That is all.


Some other things I learned from the internet a few minutes ago:

1. There have been births.

2. The birth to pay the most attention to is this one. Her name is Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt. And while that looks terrible, let's just hope that it is pronounced Shy.Lo. Say it out loud. I think you'll find it sounds quite sweet, in a Maeby Fünke way. Yes.

Voices For Peace

Went along last night to the pre-Peace Conference public meeting at Storey Hall to record it for radio. I wanted to use the female speakers, Cindy Sheehan and Kerry Nettle, for Women on the Line, but they weren't exactly super-fantastic, so I'm not sure if I will. But I'll listen again and see.

Also, question: did people know that Joe Dolce is an activist folk singer? I certainly did not. So it was weird. He didn't play Shaddap You Face, but rather songs about Iraqi children and Coretta Scott King. As I said, weird.

However, the other main speaker was quite something else. Indeed, within moments he had Leah next to me swooning and falling in love with his Brains and Integrity. So here, meet Dr Salam Ismael from Doctors For Iraq.

Punchables.

I often have the desire to punch the people I see on TV. For example, last night while watching the RAW Comedy final on the ABC, the desire to punch Wil Anderson hard in the balls reached its usual white-hot level. However, when I reviewed the whole week's worth of Punchables, I decided it was probably unfair to find Wil the MOST punchable of the week, considering he engenders rage simply by being extremely shithouse, which, though a severe crime, seems like nothing at all when placed next to other examples of extreme shithouse-ness with a far uglier aspect to them.

The case in point being: JOHN HEARD.

Did you catch him on SBS's Insight program about gay marriage on Tuesday night?

And did you find yourself thinking, "WHO ARE YOU, JOHN HEARD? DO YOU HAVE ANY FRIENDS? GOOD LORD, LET US HOPE FOR THE SAKE OF ALL BEING RIGHT WITH THE WORLD THAT YOU HAVE ZERO PUBLIC ESTEEM... I WANT TO PUNCH YOU."

That is what I felt, anyway. Because I just don't understand how someone can enter this debate having completely discounted the systematic discrimination visited upon gay people in this country, and chosen instead to focus all energy on creating secondary shit-fights about how 'it is selfish for gay people to want children', 'the Australian population agrees with me', and 'gay people don't want to get married anyway'. I mean, while these opinions can be opposed on their own childish terms, eg. 'no, it's not selfish at all', 'well, that doesn't make them right', and 'hey, you don't speak for everybody', I find it just incomprehensible that someone could believe those arguments can be put forward as points that in any way outweigh the basic fundamentals of the issue (of which gay marriage is one part), that is, EQUAL RIGHTS. Please, just think about the completely different standards you're applying. Because that is what it is fucking ABOUT. Do you think gay people are not equal to straight people? Do you think gay relationships are not equal to straight relationships? Do you think straight people should have more rights than gay people? Do you think it is in any way defensible that gay people are excluded from the rights that straight people enjoy? Are you a PUNCHABLE GOON?

I had a massive fight with my dad after that Insight program. Similarly, I couldn’t understand his response at all. The first thing he said once the show ended was, “Well, do you think that was really fair and balanced? I mean, it’s pretty clear that one side had to be more courageous in putting its views forward, eh?” And I was like, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? COURAGEOUS?!” And he was like, “Well, there was a definite hostility. And those people (who oppose gay marriage) represent a feeling in the community and so should get a fair hearing.” And I was like, “But they’re WRONG!” And he was like, “Well, that’s your opinion.” And I was like, “NO. They’re WRONG. Why should I consider their views or worry if they feel uncomfortable? They SHOULD feel uncomfortable.” And he was like, “You’re such an elitist. Community sentiment actually has value IN A DEMOCRACY.”

And, well, I couldn’t speak for fully thirty minutes. Because I was crying. Hot silent tears of rage. It was like I’d been slapped. And I was unable to make any arguments because any attempt at speech would have exploded into an humiliating and indecipherable loss of control. I was such a hostage to my extreme emotional reaction that I was barely managing to maintain what I had going - which was, red-faced shaky glaring from hot streaming eyes. I was finding it a challenge to even breathe without convulsions. And I kept waiting and waiting to calm down and regain my composure, but the confusion and anguish and rage and revulsion and disillusionment just kept building on each other, so for ages there was no relief.

To give you some historical context, I’ve only ever felt like this once before in my whole life, after the INFAMOUS! MASSIVE! 2004 PRE-CHRISTMAS BUST-UP @ Cookie between me and my sister’s now fiancé. Which was over the same issue. And I’d never before felt rage like that towards a real person. I mean, sure, I get mad all the time at figures in the mediated wider world, say that I hate them, have zero respect for them, etc. But it just doesn’t happen in real life. Until that bust-up. Which was the first time ever on a personal level that I felt something so violently negative. And we haven’t recovered from it. Nor are we likely to. Seriously, my opinion of him sank too low to allow for rehabilitation, and I’m intractable like that.

So anyway, back to Tuesday night’s immobilising anguish. Because while I was in the throes of it, I realised that I found these two flashpoints so incapacitating for 3 reasons:

1. The shock of having to make an equal rights argument at all. Because it’s supposed to be obvious, with merits indisputable and overwhelming, etc.

2. The shock of having to defend the principle of equal rights IN MY OWN FAMILY. Sure, the outside world is tainted by all manner of freaks, but MY FAMILY IS A NON SHITHEAD-AFFLICTED UNIT. How can it possibly be otherwise, when I love these people?

3. The realisation that ideas of tolerance and balance are being used to support people whose views are hateful/exclusionary/discriminatory (either in their origins or implications), while I should really make an effort to temper my intolerant and anti-democratic views, and quit being such a foolish discredit to myself in taking things “so personally”.

All of which makes me mad.

Newsflash: Today Tonight is dodgy.

Just got home and watched a totally offensive treatment of the Rex Hunt Pays For It scandal on Today Tonight. It started with Naomi putting on a soft caring voice to introduce the story of Rex's 'emotional' and 'frank' admissions. GAH! The story then gave a bit of time to Rex's appearance on 3AW talking about what he did, and then swiftly moved to the DODGY territory - that is, focussing on women's roles in this thing, rather than on Rex being a creepy sleaze. For example, this lovely voiceover work from the Today Tonight reporter about why Rex is coming forward now: "Finding out what so many people know, that if a woman is willing to accept money for sex, she might be willing to accept money to talk, too." This is when I exploded. To the glee of my brother, who took the opportunity to put on an obnoxious voice and say shitty sexist things (in jest) while I stomped about screaming "THIS IS SO OFFENSIVE!". I mean, what level of fuckedness do people have that they slime the moral quality of the women while giving Rex a free fucking pass, extending him (and only him) the courtesy of having 'private reasons' for PAYING FOR IT, getting his "rocks off" and cheating on his wife? A high level of fuckedness, in my opinion. Which they then topped off by focussing the rest of the story on "Why do wives stay, even in the face of overwhelming evidence?" AARRGH! Gee, I know how we can play this story, let's shit on some women and make the others justify and explain themselves while talking about what a big man Rex is being in this tumultuous time. FUCK. OFF.

Hidden.

I saw it last night, and was once again reminded that watching movies in French makes me ponce about the house demanding things. In French. In very poor but obnoxious French. As the appeal of that seems to have palled (only with those around me, bien sûr, parce que je n'ai jamais assez de ça), I will now review Hidden. In attempted French. The insights will be razor-sharp, let me vous dire.

Le film, Caché, était bon. Mais, je ne l'ai pas compris. Qu'est-il arrivé? Qui faisait les vidéos? Le mystère n'est pas résolu... Mais ce n'est pas la peine. Il y a plus dans le film que cela, vraiment. Par exemple, un désespoir profond. Si triste.

Also, this morning on the radio show, I enjoyed turning a song from The Saboteurs' new album into a gay rights/love song, simply by dint of the context (that is, being played after one of my interviews about the passage of the ACT's Civil Unions Bill). I mean, context couldn't really impact all that much on The Magnetic Fields' When My Boy Walks Down The Street, but I really think it brought something new to The Saboteurs' Forever. I mean, how gay and rights-y do these lyrics sound now? Context, c'est tout:

"You and me, forever,
We belong together.
And we'll always and ever,
Throughout any type of weather."

And:

"You wrote our names down on the sidewalk,
But the rain came and washed 'em off.
So we should write 'em again on wet cement,
So people a long time from now will know what we meant."

GAY.

Crumbs.

I've been searching in vain for an image. It's the most arresting piece of work I noticed when I was watching the movie Crumb. It's of a woman lying on a bed, but her face has been caved in, and beside the bed is a quivering little man with an enormous nose, the shape of which exactly matches the cavity that used to be the woman's face. I just found it to be such an original and disturbing image, which was both surreal but also made me think about men and women and how it can just go so violently wrong. But, I can't find it.

I did find something else that I liked, however.


Doesn't it just look like the feeling you get sometimes, when say, you're watching the Logies or Oprah or something? And you Just. Can't. Take. It. Anymore.

SIEV X Tarago.

A few months ago Leah and I were driving somewhere (I mean, she was driving us somewhere), and we saw a thing that, well, was most definitely 'a thing'. To be remarked on, and such. It was a Tarago van. Not so exciting yet, agreed. Even if you do strongly associate Taragos, as I do, with the 'Catholic mini van brigade' due to the large collection of them, or their like, outside the school gates each afternoon back in the day, all helmed by diligently coiffed and three-quarter chino panted madams awaiting the collection and transportation of their broods... So yes. Still not that exciting. But this Tarago van had an astounding personalised number plate. Which was: SIEV X.

And we just stared at that. The whole confounding image it presented. And it dawned on us that it was a rather brilliant thing. I mean, it was a Statement Tarago. But it wasn’t absolutely clear what the statement was. There was such meaning to be made of it. The thing threw up so many questions. Or, at least two. The first question being, Why? For indeed, what would prompt a person to have SIEV X as their number plate? To identify their car with the sinking of a smuggler boat and the consequent drowning deaths of hundreds of desperate people, mostly women and children, seeking asylum in Australia. And the second question being, For What Purpose? What are you trying to say with this corker of an idea?

Some interpretations Leah and I came up with:

1. This van is a sinking ship.
[Quite a literal interpretation, yes. But we were only warming up. Still, we couldn’t tell you what saying, “This van is a sinking ship” actually meant, even though we said it a few times and thought it sounded catchy.]

2. Pitiless death is perilously close at all times, so don’t get complacent in your sedate family vans.

3. Remember SIEV X. Right now. While you’re driving.

4. Something about blending ‘relaxed and comfortable Australia’ with ‘a lot of death for other people’.

5. This is a family van. A people-mover. It’s how families move about. Sometimes, families need to move across water to escape persecution. But they are still just families moving about. Families like the one inside this van. Obviously, they shouldn’t die.

6. Look what you can do with personalised number plates. There is no limit. Rather, there is great opportunity. Think about that.

7. What does branding a tragedy onto an everyday appliance, such as a car, make people think?
[This one a more experimental, self-reflexive artistic statement from the Tarago.]


Thoughts?

Anyway, my point is, this was a good thing to come across. So I support Taragos As Travelling Political Everyday Art Statements. TATPEAS. I would like for it to become a movement, please.

Dave Chappelle's Block Party.

Is a joy.

It will make you happy.

Running through the whole thing is the sense that everyone knows the worth of everybody else. Which makes you feel warm and cosy.

A good day.

Ignore this if you're not me, but I need to mark the occasion for my own records.

On this day, I received an email that was so good I have designs on laminating it.

That is all.

I’m just a huge manatee.

Yes, it’s going to be one of these.

Thursday 20 April

I meant to tell you this story earlier, but anyway. The whole thing began rather normally. It was late at night and I was deeply tired and had a headache and was losing consciousness on the couch. My mum was still up, and was in one of those moods you just have to let parents have sometimes. You know, when they look at you all misty-eyed and want to stroke your hair and tell you how much they like you. You really can’t talk to people when they’re in moods like that, and it was just easier to submit. Anyway, when I woke up the next morning my hair was of course insanely frizzy, because you just can’t subject it to such corny hair-stroking, daughter-loving ministrations without consequences. But, no matter. I got up intending to make the first cup of tea of the day, but stopped in my tracks when I saw what was on the floor at the end of the couch, directly below where my unsuspecting head had lain for hours of naïve and trusting slumber. And what I saw there was, to say the least, INTENSELY DISTURBING. Because, you see, it was a PILE OF MY HAIR. That had been CUT OFF. From MY HEAD. While I was ASLEEP. I can’t tell you how chilling a thing that is to wake up to. However, resilient as I am, I immediately turned and walked up the hallway to my little brother’s room, all the while patting my head in a quizzical fashion, of course.

ME: Simon, WAKE UP.
SIMON: Huh.
ME: Seriously, you will not believe what mum did to me while I was asleep. Come and see.
SIMON: No. I’m asleep.
ME: Oh get up. You don’t want to miss this.
SIMON: Yes, I do. I don’t care. Go away.
ME: Okay, fine. But you’re only ruining the experience for yourself… So, do you notice anything different about me?
SIMON: [squinting] Your hair’s really frizzy. More than usual. Go away.
ME: Well, at least you’re close. But fine, I’ll just tell you if you're not going to get into the fun of it. Is that what you’re forcing me to do?
SIMON: Yes, that's what I’m forcing you to do.
ME: Last chance. You really will be missing out if we do it like this. Are you sure you don’t just want to come and see?
SIMON: Elanor, just tell me and then go away. I am not getting up yet. It’s not even 10am.
ME: Fine… MUM CUT MY HAIR OFF. WHEN I WAS. ASLEEP.
SIMON: [weak beginnings of a laugh] What?
ME: I know! This is so DISTURBING. It’s like that time she almost gassed me.
SIMON: [explodes in laughter.] [explodes in more laughter.] [could not be more awake now, such is the extent of the explosive laughter.] Ah, the memories. Right, let’s see it.

That’s basically the end of the story. I mean, we went and looked at the pile of hair. And then I dustpan-and-brushed it. And that was that.

Saturday 22 April

Watched three DVDs – Alexander, Last Days, and Maurice. They all had something gay in them, which was pleasing.

Alexander is quite bad. Actually, it’s very very bad. Truly awful, and insanely so. And it contains an embarrassment of embarrassments [and by that I mean ‘a lot of embarrassments’. Don’t know why I couldn’t just have said that, but I couldn’t. And still can’t]. There are some ridiculous accents, and Angelina Jolie’s stands out with some force. Also, the tunics are very short, so there’s this hilarious scene where Colin Farrell is being all imperious about a war plan, standing on top of a model city on a table and punctuating his imperious talk by jabbing the air with a dagger, all of which - in a shorty tunic - looks very much like a bratty little boy failing to convince people he’s an important grown up. The MOST hilarious and embarrassing moment, though, is when Colin Farrell inexplicably starts growling like a tiger as part of some pre-sexual play with Rosario Dawson. WATCH THE MOVIE SIMPLY FOR THIS. It’s astounding. However, I don’t recommend watching the film all the way through, because it takes too long and bores and maddens too much. My brother simply couldn’t take it anymore. And he kept asking me why I was still watching it. And I would say, “Listen, you won’t care, but I want to see if there’s more of the Jared Leto love story. Yes, it’s been pretty thin on the ground so far. In fact, they barely seem to speak to one another except for that heartbreaking scene where he gave him that ring, just before that stupid tiger growling madness. But I’m watching this film until the end because he just has to spend SOME time with his boyfriend, at some point. I’m frankly baffled that he doesn’t seem to even be talking to Leto, even though he’s always around. For real, at this point I’d be prepared to settle for some lingering glances, or one even, just to show that Stone is remembering to set Leto apart from the rest of the entourage. But you’re giving me nothing, Stone. What the hell are you playing at? Don’t you see that the only time Alexander is cool and nice is when he’s all soulful about his dishy glam boyfriend? It's the only good thing about this fucking disaster of a movie! So why can’t there be more of it? HUH?… Oh, and also Simon, apparently there is some Colin Farrell dick shot that caused test audiences to positively lose their minds and which so overshadowed responses to the film that they decided to cut it. But it appears in this Director’s Cut. So I am waiting for that, also.” So Simon sat down again and endured the movie until the famous dick shot. Except that when it came, it wasn’t actually a dick shot at all. My brother said it best when he disgustedly pronounced, “THAT’S BALLS.” He was being literal and in the moment, but it remains his review of the film as a whole (although he didn’t stay to watch it all the way through. Unlike stupid hopeful me. But don’t do what I did, because it’s just SO CRAP).

Last Days was super excellent, in my opinion. Makes me sigh with lovely thoughts when I think about having watched it. Sigh. What a good thing it is. Makes me think that maybe Finding Forrester - which I haven’t actually seen but still hold to be a black mark in the career of Gus Van Sant (I shudder with revulsion at the thought that he directed it, much in the same way as when I think about Matthieu Kassovitz having directed Gothika, which I also haven’t seen) – wasn’t such a wholly unrehabilitatable thing, considering it’s the movie in which Gus Van Sant first happened upon Michael Pitt. I think. But anyway, yes, Last Days is tops. People are wearing pyjamas like they’re clothes, which is something I relate to. Lukas Haas’ pyjama fashion is especially good, as are his glasses. And I was very impressed with the music that Michael Pitt wrote/played in the film. It worked. Which made me really wonder whether the song/video clip that appears as a DVD extra was just a big joke. Because it really doesn’t work and appears to be the worst kind of Nirvana-lite. I really hope it wasn’t serious, and was never actually thought of as a releasable song to launch Michael Pitt’s music career, if he has aspirations of that kind. Because it’s very bad. It’s called “Happy Song”, and let’s just hope that the band he appears to be fronting in the clip, Pagoda, isn’t a real band. Because that would make me think bad things about Michael Pitt, which is not something I want to do. And I really can’t decide either way. Does the fact that Johnny from the OC is the drummer make it more or less likely to be a joke/fake thing? I really don’t know.

I also liked Maurice very much. It’s based on an E.M. Forster novel I had never heard of, and it has a young Hugh Grant playing Clive, the boyfriend of Maurice. And they’re both at Cambridge (or Oxford), and it’s 1910 or thereabouts, and they discover their love and erotically stroke each other’s hair and hug electrically, but then have to hide and mute their love, which is sad. But then Hugh Grant caves like a bad chap, and marries a woman, and then becomes a silly person, extolling the wonders of women and how clever and nice they are, in a very forced and desperate way, to Maurice. You really should get one of your own, etc etc. But Maurice will have none of that, because Rupert Graves is lovely.

Sunday 23 April

Went to see Inside Man with Leah (and my brother). There had been a build-up of increasingly positive responses to the film from friends, and we were too excited. So just before we went in, Leah and I made half-hearted attempts to reason with ourselves and attempt to cool down our mounting expectations of being thrilled to bits about it. But who cares about that now. The film is just a DELIGHT. You just love it from the opening shot. I mean, I was trying not to get ahead of myself, so I had remonstrations running through my brain, saying, “Now don’t fall over yourself about it yet. Sure, it’s all AMAZING stuff so far, but there’s still two hours of film left, and that’s a lot of seconds in which to find disappointment and betrayal. Yes, I know it’s Spike Lee, but don’t fall too fast.” And I really did try to keep myself in check, but you can only do so much. Especially after The Thing happened. The Thing was the moment when I knew I would irrevocably love this film, because something so right cannot possibly go wrong. I believe it was the same moment for Leah, too. Because when it happened, we both happily gasped and nudged each other and hugged ourselves. The Thing was Denzel Washington’s hat. It is very enjoyable.
(Also, Clive Owen could not be hotter. So tall, so lean, so slim-hipped but also looming. Jesus Christ, I love painters' jumpsuits. JESUS. CHRIST.)

Monday 24 April

On this day, my sister became prestigious. Because, you see, she was on Lateline. Sure, she was only in the background, sitting at her desk. But she was ON IT, god damnit. She works at the Bureau of Meteorology in Darwin, you see. So huge thanks to the cyclone that was advancing on Darwin. You were a GIFT to the prestige of my family.

Tuesday 25 April

Saw Dylan Moran at his 5pm Hamer Hall show. It was nice to see him, because it’s very pleasant just watching him shamble about. I also enjoyed the breakout of whispering and consultation in the audience that followed the pronunciation of his name in the intro, which seemed to jolt every audience member into turning to the person next to them to say, “Moor-in? I’ve been saying Mor-ann. How embarrassing.” However, I did not laugh very loud or often during the show. And actually, because I was so tired and in Hamer Hall (the place acts like a sleeping draught on me, for some reason. I’ve nodded off without fail at least once during every Melbourne Symphony performance I’ve attended) I must admit that for the middle section of the show I wasn’t entirely conscious. Anyway, I noticed that he does that whole ‘talk about people as nationalities’ thing that I usually find so annoying, as in, “Australians are so laid back” et al hackery. But I also noticed that when he did it, he didn’t really do it like that, and therefore didn’t suck in his execution of it, but I can’t remember any examples of why. I do, however, remember feeling slightly miffed at certain points when it felt like he was making the audience complicit in forming and cementing his own low opinion of them, by randomly throwing out cheap uninspired shots about America or New Zealand to which people of course responded in excessive ways not supported by the strength of the joke. It was like he entrapped them into revealing how lame they are. I mean, it didn’t feel like he did that cheap material because he believes it works as comedy - and I’ve seen people who do think it actually works, so I hope I can tell the difference. No, it just felt like he was putting crap stuff out there as a test. But then moving on immediately. So it’s not like he was baiting people into revealing kneejerk reactions as an entry point into having them light-heartedly interrogate themselves and see things in a fresh light. No, he was just waking the lameness beast so that he could note its presence. The point wasn’t to make it reflect upon itself. Which is not nice. Don’t make the silly people reveal the gap between their tastes and brains and yours and then not help them out about it. That dirties everybody.

Thursday 27 April

Went to see Tim Minchin, David O’Doherty and Demetri Martin. All were tops, with Demetri Martin being the topsest.

I didn’t see Tim Minchin’s show last year. I’ve spoken to people who did, and they seem to enjoy this year’s show less because they have last year’s as a comparison. But I am not burdened in that way. So I thought he was good. Funny, you know. Especially that love as cancer and women as moles song. PUNS!

I liked David O’Doherty before I saw him, simply because he’s in that comedian cool group that’s ACTUALLY COOL - a threesome comprising him and Daniel Kitson and Demetri Martin that became apparent to me last year during Daniel Kitson’s first late gig. It seemed that Danny Bhoy was also in that cool group, but I have mentally removed him from it because I don’t think he is in its league. David O’Doherty is, though. I like his “very low energy musical whimsy” or vlemwy. I like his stories. I suppose less invested people might consider him Daniel Kitson-lite in his ‘take on things’, as in, just slightly less impeccable opinions on quite similar things, but it was fine with me.

Demetri Martin was a cut above, of course. Dr Ernest Parrot Presents is an infinitely better show than last year’s, and I LOVED last year’s. I’m very glad Demetri won the Barry, too, even if he did have to beat Kitson to do it. But it’s fine because Kitson already has one, right? And this show was a joy. Sigh. Such a good thing. There was one disturbing moment, however. It was during the slideshow of how ‘uncool’ Demetri is, which of course could only enhance and confirm our estimation of his sweetly dorkish cool. Because what’s not sweetly dorkish cool about a cutie short kid in a traditional Greek dancing costume? Nothing. Especially if that kid has also just performed before your very eyes a show he’s written about the “brain nook” that floats above his head, and is in general just a gentle clever funny dude. However, as I said, there was one glaring and disturbing moment in that slideshow, when I looked at a photo and thought, “FUUUCK. How on earth could that possibly be Demetri Martin? I guess there’s hope for everyone if that was once Demetri Martin. JESUS.” It was a photo possibly taken in his early twenties. He had short hair and a despicable goatee and he was wearing a tacky patterned tie and a white long-sleeved shirt that puffed out of his belt and non-flat-fronted office pants. Anyway, all of this conspired to make him look like a cheesy greasy IT tech support guy, or the loser nephew of some small business owner you might work for, who would absolutely have a Simpsons quote as his mobile ring tone, and would point to it with a smile every time it rang, constantly having to involve other people in his needy loserishness, or something, and just generally having no prospects whatsoever of proving to be an interesting person. That is seriously what he looked like. I was astonished. But he’s of course not like that at all. Instead he’s great and in the coolest cool group around. I mean, they don’t need to involve other people in anything, and I like that.

Saturday 29 April

Was at the State Library doing some preliminary research into the activist campaigns we’ll be featuring in next year’s 3CR calendar. Then had some time to kill before the evening entertainments of Daniel Kitson and then Demetri Martin’s late gig, so I took myself off to see The Squid and The Whale. Which I strongly recommend. It’s funny and unsympathetic but still sympathetic if you know what I mean. There are terrific performances, especially from Jeff Daniels. And believable family scenes, as in, having the family separation meeting begin with an “Eugh, Mom!” when she comes out of the bathroom and brings a stink with her. What I mean is they’re grounded in reality. But in their own reality, is also what I mean. I’m not applauding a film for making everything relatable because the specifics of this family have been diluted in some mindless gesture towards universality. That’s not what this film does. I’m applauding that it doesn’t do that. Which is an accomplishment, is all. So yes, believable. The younger kid is the son of Phoebe Cates and Kevin Kline, who I just happened to see recently in The Anniversary Party. I like him. He’s a cool kid. And I have to read Kafka’s Metamorphosis this semester, so all the references to it actually made me want to. I loved when the older kid, who gets his opinions direct from his dad, tries to impress a girl with his literary nous by bringing up Metamorphosis, even though he’s obviously read as much of the book as I have [that is, none], and then has a mental panic before calling it ‘Kafkaesque’. HA. It was the freshest but simplest use of a cliché I’ve heard in ages, and of course the girl gently but firmly responds, “Well, yes. It’s by Kafka.” Golden. I mean, the older kid knows it’s by Kafka too, but the point is he’s such a hostage to competitiveness for much of the film that he misses the whole point of things, even when he loves those things [‘those things’ being reading and writing].

Anyway, I bought a new packet of cigarettes on this night. And I feel it’s worth mentioning that they had gangrene on them. Which didn’t make me want to stop smoking. I was rather thrilled at the novelty of being able to flash a gross photo of a gangrenous foot each time I whipped out the smokes. But then I opened the packet, and became confused and OUTRAGED. You see, I smoke Marlboro Lights specifically for their white butts. I simply will not have cigarettes with brown butts as my brand. I don’t even know why they make so many cigarettes with brown butts. They are just not aesthetically pleasing! Anyway, despite this packet bearing all resemblance to a Marlboro Lights packet, gangrene aside, the butts of the cigarettes inside were brown. And I was like, “If you want me to quit smoking, this will fucking do it. If they’ve changed the Marlboro Lights butts to brown I will spit on somebody.” There was quite a lot of rage. And then I lit the cigarette and became more confused. Because it didn’t taste like a Marlboro Light, it tasted like a Marlboro Red. Which blew my mind because, whoah, the packet was white and gold. I was truly spun about by all this. And outraged, as I’ve mentioned. But confusion did tend to dominate. In the end, I did like the gangrene so I got over it. But I haven’t solved the mystery of it, as the next packet of Marlboro Lights I bought was back to normal. It didn’t, however, have any gangrene on it, and the gangrenous ones are the newest, so I do live in fear of future rude shocks.

Daniel Kitson was just superb. I think it’s the best I’ve seen him, and I’ve seen him GREAT. I was so high and blissed out after this show, I just kind of wandered about in a flushed dreamy reverie. I mean, once I was outside I of course had to run across the street to the next show, but I damn sure looked like I was in a flushed dreamy reverie all the way from my seat to the stairs and then all the way up them as well. Because, quite frankly, HIS THINKING IS JUST SO IMPECCABLE. He never pisses you off by disappointing you with a substandard conclusion or point of inquiry. It’s quite amazing, really. I mean, he’s basically talking about tastes, which is as subjective and nuanced an area as you can get, really, and one that you would expect to present many insurmountable points of difference that violently turn you off. But HE’S RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING. And the WAY he’s right just compounds how right he is. Sigh. Points I remember - doing stuff just because you think it might be good, decency and contrariness, not going to see live music for the beer, how perfectly fine it is for art to be pretentious, how people you hate can like the same things as you, how your principles don’t work in certain hypothetical or real contexts (coupled with a display of beautiful but sound mental agility that doesn’t allow for copping out either), how cunts abound, etc etc etc. God, I love this man.

Also I just want to write this down so that I remember it:

Weltanschauung
1) The overall perspective from which one sees and interprets the world.
2) A collection of beliefs about life and the universe held by an individual or group.
3) A comprehensive and usually personal conception or view of humanity, the world, or life.

Idiosyncratic but comprehensive. Yes, I need to remember that good word. Also, before the show there was great music playing, and I made sure to note down a lyric that would send me in the right direction with a Google search. The lyric that seemed best suited to this purpose was “sucking dick for ecstasy”. And it worked. So now I adore The Moldy Peaches, and you would be advised to do the same.

Demetri Martin’s late show was a looser collection of Other Jokes, and it was fine, but obviously not as polished as his main festival show and even quite flat sometimes. But you can’t be brilliant all the time.

Thursday 4 May

Went to see Liars at the Corner Hotel. It was a fantastic gig, with a bloody excellent line-up of supports: The Young Professionals, Damn Arms, and Snowman. Have only praise for the entire evening. I've been intrigued to see The Young Professionals for a few years now, ever since Mel used to live with them. And I was very impressed with how leotarded they were and the gusto with which they set about their songs. Was quite delighted with them, really. Then Damn Arms were great as usual. And then the dark echoey falsetto/touches of rockabilly (?) from Snowman was top notch too. Then Liars came on. I was happy that they were playing a lot of stuff from their excellent new album, and I particularly enjoyed the display of hot back by the extra drummer/sound guy, Aaron. Last time I saw them when they supported Yeah Yeah Yeahs at the HiFi, he tended to face the audience so there wasn't nearly so much of his hot back. I was really hanging out for them to play Grown Men Don't Fall In The River, Just Like That, and also The Other Side Of Mt Heart Attack, but you have to let them put on the show they want to.

Some other things I want to mention that aren’t so date-specific.

There’s an ad on the television that has crushed me. It’s for Honda Civic, I think. And it crushes me because it uses exactly the same song that I used when I made a 3CR community service announcement last month for Voiceworks Magazine. The song is Sunshine and Clouds (And Everything Proud) by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and I thought I’d made a lovely little csa with it. I was happy with it. But now it’s all been sullied and I’m sullied and my ideas are spoilt and common and crap. Once again.

There’s another ad on the television, but I have ‘a thing’ going with this one, so it makes me happy when it comes on. But also ashamed. Hmm, really can’t escape these negative responses. But still, it’s mostly joy in this case. It’s the Continental side dish ad with the Supernanny on it. I hope you’re enjoying it too, but if you’re not, let me direct your attention specifically to how it ends. Because, for serious, what an ending! It’s such a gift. When I first heard it I was stunned into wide-eyed silence [for a moment]. You see, Continental are trying to make people aware that they’ve redesigned their brand so that there’s a big red ‘C’ on the packets. And so at the end of this particular ad, the Supernanny [who, let's face it, is a right slapper] says the same new phrase that’s being implemented across the board with Continental products but it is FUCKING HILARIOUS when she says it. Because what she says is, “Look for the big C.” And when I heard that my head just snapped around to stare at the TV. I was stunned, as I mentioned. And then I had to bite my fist, in a hammy attempt at stifling. But my adolescent hysterics could not be kept down for much more than a moment before I exploded with “I’M LOOKING RIGHT AT HER!” Oh the exhilaration. Oh the hilarity. I laughed excessively at my genius there, and high-fived myself a bit. And now I do that every time. The shame comes later, of course. But it is fucking worth it.

Ooh, I bought the DVD of You And Me And Everyone We Know, because I just love it to bits.

And American Dreamz is much better than you’d expect. In fact, it’s good.

And finally, a small housekeeping point for you to ignore if you notice it at all. I’ll be adding titles to all my posts from now on, and to all the previous posts too, as time permits, because none of them have titles and having titles is a requirement of some vague corporate adventure I was solicited for. Anyway, I’m not really used to thinking up titles for posts. For example, the title for this one is just a lyric I liked in my new favourite thing, the Moldy Peaches song Nothing Came Out. It’s also applicable to me as a person, I suppose, or to the size of the post, if that’s necessary.

Somebody, PLEASE, stab out my eyeballs.

The Age

Ridiculusmus in The Importance of Being Earnest

I saw it last night and it is bloody terrific. Of course it is. Do try it.

In other things, just annoyed my brother by screaming in happy shock [which, admittedly, does sound a bit like Lucille Bluth discovering Gene Parmesan] on finding out that Low is coming to town. LOW! And then annoyed him again by almost immediately screaming in happy shock a second time, on finding out that Liars are coming to town too. LIARS! I love stuff sometimes.

Recently, I have been obsessively listening to Song To The Siren by Tim Buckley, and Laurie Anderson's Big Science album. And yes, these are hangovers from Antony's guest-programming of Rage. But I really can't stress enough just how truly great they are. Seriously, Antony nominated This Mortal Coil's version of Song To The Siren as his favourite recording ever, but I really must dispute this. At the moment I am of the opinion that Tim Buckley's is The. Best. Thing. Ever. Or at least, it sits comfortably up amongst all the other Best. Things. Ever, a grouping which of course includes Big Science.

Also, I do love the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs album, Show Your Bones. I mean, of course I do. But really, I do.

And finally, a thing from before the iPod died. See, I've started making playlists according to themes, so that I have INSPIRED selections of music to play on the radio after interviews. The point is to have easy access to the option of playing AIH's Do The Whirlwind or The Fiery Furnaces' Gale Blow after an interview about wind farms. And so forth. Anyway, there's this song I put in the "asylum-seeker" playlist, and I can't shake how eerily appropriate I find it. It is like, SO appropriate, even though I'm quite positive it wasn't even remotely inspired by the experience of seeking asylum in Australia from the sea. But even its title is appropriate: Three Days At Sea (Three Lost Years)... Doesn't that just blow your mind. Anyway, it's a lovely song by Great Lake Swimmers, and I've put it in the "asylum-seeker" playlist, is all.

Good Friday quote of the day.

As heard on the ABC 7pm news this evening, a priest of some kind encapsulating the meaning of Easter thusly:

"Easter belongs to people with a mental illness."

Oh how I laughed.

Short cuts.

Hey Guy, Kylie now has the same slammin' hair-do as you.

The depth of your devotional fan link cannot be overstated.

In other news, I've been doing stuff. Just uni stuff and 3CR stuff, which is nice but not worth getting into. Had a massive catastrophe with my lap top screen cracking and being sent away on the same day that my iPod died, leaving me completely bereft of entertainments. Except that I finally saw Capote last week, which was utterly utterly GOOD. Loved it. Also saw A History Of Violence this week, which was also very good. William Hurt really was quite excellent in the small amount of screen time he had, and Viggo was very good at violence. I liked how strong the wife was. Anyways, I chuckled to myself as I left the theatre, because I actually heard someone say, "Well, that's definitely the most mainstream Cronenberg's ever been." It just made me laugh that someone even bothered to say that. And I watched The Brown Bunny. I liked it. Vincent Gallo is good at being pathetically sad but cool at the same time [his penis is also very nice]. Ooh, and yesterday I was scanning the magazine shelves and couldn't resist the lovely invitation to read Interview magazine after noticing this delightful premise: "Hot Bohemian Devendra Banhart by Lindsay Lohan". HOW ODD. My favourite bit was when Lindsay was telling Devendra about how she plays his music for people and she tries to describe him for them by saying something to the effect of, "He's like a way cuter version of the Charles Manson type." Which she followed up with, "I drove past Sharon Tate's house once. It was really weird."

Some general points to make about The World, etc:

Nuclear energy is not a 'clean' energy option. Just want to make sure people are aware of that, because it seems even Tony Blair doesn't bat an eyelid in calling it clean. Even when IT'S SO NOT. How did we get here? Because truly, it's quite unequivocally not. For instance, extracting and processing uranium is not a carbon emission free process in the first place. So it's not the solution to climate change, okay? A false choice has been set up between coal and uranium, BUT THERE IS OTHER STUFF, is all. And then we can get into the moral problem of how 'unclean' it is for us to be part of the nuclear industry. Weaponry, bad stuff, insane problems for future generations, and we'd be implicated. See, there's that massive problem of there being NO WAY to safely dispose of nuclear waste... NUCLEAR waste. And the industry's not even being run in a safe way. Just last year ERA got prosecuted for some contamination leaks out of Ranger, which was like, a total first in terms of attempting to make the indusrty accountable in Australia. In conclusion, the aim is to be nuclear-free, right?

FUCKING HELL! This just heaps disgrace upon disgrace. We are such creeps. I mean, WE HAVE RESPONSIBILITIES in which we are already being negligent, but instead of moving in the direction of making things right, of being DECENT after years of fucking people over, we're going to be WORSE than even WE have managed to be before! I hate us.

This news approaches something close to good.

Anyways, going to see Martha Wainwright tonight, which will no doubt be lovely again. And Comedy Festival is here. I've scored some freebies to The Importance of Being Earnest on Saturday night, but otherwise won't be going this week until I've done my homework. When I've done my homework, I plan to hit Daniel Kitson, Demetri Martin, David O'Doherty, Andrew McClelland, Rich Hall & Mike Wilmot, and possibly their play too. I've got Dylan Moran tickets. Other things depend on reviews and buzz and such.