The Melbourne International Comedy Festival kicked off earlier tonight. Needless to say, I was there. And Daniel Kitson is still a FUCKING GOD! Seriously, if I could go and see him every night of the festival, I would. Too right. Fucking legend. And I would advise that all you good people do the same. What I wouldn't advise is that you go and see Dave Hughes, because, well, he's just not a very good stand-up. Sure, the poor dear wouldn't know it, as his every utterance is met by uproarious laughter and applause, and the end of his show seemed to be a signal to everyone around me to turn to their significant other and say "He was pretty funny, eh?" to the astonishment of moi, who, in my singleton isolation, was then forced to shout in my brain "No he fucking wasn't! Are you people mad?" See, while I completely agree that Dave is a funny man - his scurrilous wit remains the only saving grace of The Glass House, but even that's becoming patchy - I must nevertheless contend, dear people, that he does NOT do stand-up well. I've never seen him do a good show. I have given him plenty of chances to prove that he can, and tonight was his last. So I'm cutting him off. Not that he'd actually give a toss considering that his whole festival season is already sold out, but, there you are. Cancel your tickets while you still can is my advice, kids. Perhaps swap them for some Daniel Kitson tickets, or, failing that, some for Danny Bhoy's show, which I also saw tonight, and which I am not ashamed to recommend because I doubt that the recommendation will be thrown back in my face. He's not super-dooper, but he is better than he was last year, and he was already pretty good then. But he doesn't need my help either. Tell you who does, though? YOU.

So, TAKE HEED. In the spirit of community service, here are some other 'comedians' that, based on past experience, I would steer clear of like the plague, even if popular support would lead you to think otherwise; Wil Anderson, Adam Hills, Lano & Woodley. Believe me, they suck, and their continuing ability to receive support from the public [and often critics too] astounds me. I just don't get it. Of course, there are a heap of other shows that will also suck big time - Damien Clark and Yianni, I'm looking at you - but people will at least tell it to you straight, if they deign to mention such piddling shows at all. Also, if you are a Festival newcomer, just keep in mind that this year's is not what it ought to be, with HEAPS of no-shows - Mike Wilmot, Flight of the Conchords, Lawrence Mooney, Brian Munich and Friends, anything Boosh-related, Demetri Martin [who has never actually appeared here before, I was just hoping that his win at Edinburgh would automatically make him come] - so the crop is rather thin. My excitement is not what it was last year, when I was on a high for three weeks straight. But, nonetheless, I am looking forward to seeing Ross Noble, Chris Addison, The 4 Noels, Charlie Pickering, Sarah Kendall, maybe Gerard McCulloch, maybe Anthony Menchetti, maybe Brendon Burns, maybe Greg Fleet, maybe Tripod, and of course, DEFINITELY more Daniel Kitson. Really, he's the only thing that's ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY, and could probably keep you high for three weeks straight all by himself. I am not kidding.

Over the past few weeks I have been buying CDs but not finding time to listen to them. Anyway, I've given today over to the task and my initial response is that I have fucking excellent CD buying/follow-the-herd skills. Yay for me. The three CDs to which I have given a cursory hearing are the Franz Ferdinand debut, The Von Bondies' Pawn Shoppe Heart, and The Vines' Winning Days. All three are rollicking tops, mate. But, [plaintively pitched "aw MAN!"], I'm just remembering all the other CDs I've bought over the months that I don't really 'know' yet, and also all the 'necessary to existence' favourites that I haven't listened to in ages. Fuck, I READ about music more than I listen to it. What the hell is happening to me?

Read a brief article in MX on the train home that, while not really being 'funny', wasn't really 'not funny' either. The headline read "Man of God dies at film" and it went a little somthing like this;

"A Brazilian pastor has died during a screening of Mel Gibson's controversial film The Passion of the Christ. Jose Geraldo Soares, a 43-year-old Presbyterian, had booked a whole cinema to view the film with his congregation. Halfway through, his wife noticed that he was no longer awake. A doctor in the audience confirmed he had suffered a heart attack. Friends denied that the film's violence had caused the death. 'He was calmly watching the movie next to his wife,' family friend Amauri Costa said.
A Kansas woman passed out and died after seeing the film early this month."

Also in MX today was a two page fashion spread with Oscar Humphries posing as model. Made me mock and giggle to my scornful glee. But it also made me realise that perhaps I should be more understanding of Guy's anti-Thorpie position. Cos, what Guy takes exception to in Thorpie is probably the same thing that I take exception to in Oscar, namely, that he's personally fucking annoying. You know?

OK, the season of great TV that I had prophesized has officially turned to shit. Maybe I was a bit over-eager in committing myself to what largely consisted of reality TV, but I nonetheless get pissed off when networks pull shows half-way through their run - great way to turn loyal viewers into bitter enemies. Why do you think Channel 7 is uniformly despised? In this case however, Channel 10 is the culprit. They’ve axed The Resort. Now, it was a pretty lame show, but there was enough bitchiness to keep me interested (come on, the Eva v. Tab situation was pretty prime), and I invested, damn it. I invested and now I’ll get no return, so I’m not at all happy. In other areas too, the abundance of fun I had imagined has dried up. Sex and the City’s kinda disappointing, Newlyweds seems to have vanished and Secret Life sucked and was rightly pulled. The Hothouse I never bothered with – I do have some taste and I’m not gonna waste my time watching concrete dry (literally). Plus, I’m still pissed off by that much-hyped “Kylie on Queer Eye” episode which turned out to be like 5 minutes in total. I don’t like people manipulating my vulnerabilities...

Spurred on by a debate raging in the comments section of A Wild Young Under-Whimsy, here are the reasons why I do not like Ian Thorpe (not that I've met him):

1: He has his own range of pearls. Self explanatory.
2: He wore an all-white suit to some awards gig.
3: He has his own underwear range. The name is "It", cause that's like his initials, but the logo kinda looks like a pool, cause he, like swims.
4: He has a suspiciously fake tan. Yes he's a swimmer, but I don't buy it.
5: He has blonde tips in his hair. Self explanatory.
6: I'm sure he refers to himself in the third-person in interview situations.
7: And finally, did I mention the pearls?

It's official: Frewrious Spew is back.

The documentary, The President versus David Hicks, that screened on SBS on Saturday night had a lot of amazing stuff in it. For example, letter-writing is not as dead a form of communication as I had thought. Also, George W Bush is a brazen little hussy, my god. But, despite the horror induced by the various prejudicial statements, aired again during the doco, that he has made regarding the prisoners at Gitmo, the statement that shocked me the most came from Stephen Kenny, David Hicks' family lawyer and an upstanding, principled and reasonable guy all round. He managed to prove that, in times like these, 'logic will break your heart' [as the cd title goes]. The moment happened thus. He and Terry Hicks [go Terry] are in New York meeting with Michael Ratner of the Centre For Constitutional Rights, and they're all trying to figure out how long it has been since they began working together to gain access to, secure due process for, or at least establish whose laws had jurisdiction over and therefore needed to be applied to, the prisoners in Gitmo. They find that it's been a while; 19 months at that point in time. 19 months with no real progress. Which caused Stephen Kenny, in baffled bemusement, to comment,

"I thought it would be a short period of time, and suddenly, until now, I couldn't believe such a fundamental breach of law would continue for so long".

That's kinda bad. And heartbreaking.

Thankyou Leah for providing an example of why The Passion of the Christ is probably not going to "end war" (to use Mel Gibson's words).

Interesting update on the Belle de Jour mystery at Troubled Diva.

What WAS up with Parky? He was being a total fuck-wit. Meg simply did the best she could to handle him. Yes, she was a bit on edge (after a day of heated interviews), but she was never rude - she simply didn't bow down before Parky like every other celeb seems to do ("I can't believe I'm sitting next to you! etc etc"). When it got to the point that he was saying stuff like "maybe your marriage left you bruised, battered... do you think after you've recovered you'll go back to romantic comedy", I was livid - he was using her divorce to fight back at her. What a wanker. I've lost respect - not classy at all. Meg, however... I like her. Tough, but spot-on. Respect.

Watched that Parkinson interview with Meg Ryan. What was up with Parky? He was combative, reductive, kept telling people what they were, and kept getting it wrong. He called making a distinction between love and romance 'cynical', and he totally didn't get the movie Meg was there to talk about - In The Cut [which I personally loved]. But she was great. It's actually one of the best interviews I've seen her do. Really interesting. She's very with it and spot on and articulate and stuff. And Susannah and Trinny were also cool, and were able to handle his swipes well. Parky obviously bought into their press as 'mean girls', which showed that he hadn't actually seen their show, and was rather working from received opinion. Anyway, ending Meg's interview by saying he looks forward next time to seeing "the new Meg Ryan", ie, a better Meg Ryan than he saw this time, was a pretty insulting way to end an interview that he himself was responsible for fouling up. That's crap, Parky.

There's a new fun song on the radio, Eamon's "Fuck It! I Don't Want You Back...". Basically it sounds like any other cheap sounding R&B, in the manner of Boyz 2 Men, but the lyrics are like "Fuck you bitch, I don't want you back, so fuck off, screw you etc etc". What's funny is that the delivery is totally earnest - he's emoting and feeling like a Backstreet Boy, but cause he's all potty-mouth, he's like, street.

Final of The Simple Life the other night. It says a lot that I sort of forgot the show existed after a few episodes. This does not bode well for Paris' recording career, although she does sort of defy the 15 minutes rule. A few funny moments. Funny/scary was when Nicole Richie, absolutely trashed, decided to through a bottle of bleach onto a pool table at the local pub (or American equivalent). It wasn't so much her CRAZED actions that were funny, but the way they edited it... they showed it in black and white, slow-mo with an echo effect so her scream sounded like the howl of a wild beast. Not subtle. Kind of upsetting was when everyone at the bar started chanting at Paris "Go Home Rich Bitch... Go Home Rich Bitch...". I mean, she objectively is kinda like that (although I still love her), but still hard to see her pained "they don't love me" reaction. Although she did seem to get over it pretty quick, and she kinda deserved it for the number of times she's insulted hick towns.

I hear movement over at Frewious Spew...

Courtney was just on Letterman, and it was a great thing. She didn't look her best but I still like her. She's kinda funny when she's not being an annoying poser. And Dave just went with her, which I think proves he's not an asshole. So loving him is okay.

I know I'm a little late on this but, whatever. Yay! Monica Bellucci and Vincent Cassel are having a baby. That is so cool.

Mel is a cultural studies go-getter, played DJ at my 21st and has witnessed my obnoxious 9-13 "brat" phase. Now she has a blog, A Wild Young Under-Whimsy, which is a very good thing as her grasp of all things pop is mind-blowing. I am, however, worried about a possible positive evaluation of Kylie's Red Blooded Woman - does the presence of a song on the Head Tapes mean it is respected?

Forgot to mention before that I saw Camp the other night (you know, the one about musical theatre camp, that's like, camp) and it was the BEST film I have seen in ages, ages, ages, or at least since The Passion of the Christ. Anyway, I loved it. Got the right balance between parody and affection (kinda like A Mighty Wind). So good - go see it! Also saw 13 Days last night, and surprisingly for a Costner film, it didn't suck. Alright.

It's Queer Film Festival time, and first cab off the rank was Beyond Vanilla, a candid expose of non-standard sexual practices featuring "100 Kinksters" and LOTS of graphic sex. Now, I didn't find any of this shocking, but a few times I was left thinking "wow - I can't believe they thought of this!". Considering the opening shot was of anal fisting (I cannot believe I saw this at Fed Square), you're not really gonna be shocked from then on. A few things I didn't know existed: 1)"Electricity", where they attach electrodes to the genitals to create painful/pleasurable electric shocks that "pulsate" through the body. 2) "Flaming", where the body is set alight for sexual pleasure, and 3) "Daddy/Boy" play, which is kinda self-explanatory. I walked out of the film thinking how industrious humanity really is - always looking for new ideas, new avenues for pleasure and new ways to use the human body. Following the path of progress. The quote of the night was this: "if an alien race visited Earth, and saw all these guys with their fists up other guys' arses, what the hell would they make of it?".

Now, I love NW magazine. It's got lots of pictures and gossip and it's amorally glib about everything. It's perfect trash. However, have just been going through it and found a headline that kinda made me go "Whoah, NW dudes, that's not cool". The headline referred to Rosie O'Donnell's recent marriage, but with the words "Rosie marries gal pal". It kinda made me suck air through my teeth and recoil. I mean, "gal pal"? Kinda a disrespectful usage of the term, if my NW-conditioning about its deployment is anything to go by. See, 'gal pal', in NW-land, has two observed uses; (1) it refers to women who are friends [and you know what they get up to, with their lacy panties and 'sleepovers', wink wink], and (2) it refers to short-lived girl-on-girl flings. Madonna and Sandra Bernhardt were 'gal pals' for instance, as, for that matter, were Madonna and Rosie. So you can see that the term doesn't exactly apply to a deal where you're having a big time relationship, and stuff. I just thought that the headline was kinda eeek. But maybe I'm being precious. I can't just applaud amoral glibness and then say that lesbians formalising a relationship are sacred cows, can I? Hmmm, I don't know. But I would have people consider the different treatment and respect that would usually be afforded to a heterosexual star's decision to marry. I just don't think it's fair to relegate Rosie's marriage to the 'joke marriage' level, and it frightened me how automatically that was done.

The clip for The Strokes' Reptilia is fucking HOT!

Have just returned from seeing the lovely Camille play a gig [her second ever with this new band] at the Victoria Hotel in Brunswick. And despite my longtime fondness for the girl, I think that I can say with all objectivity that she is supremely talented and her music wonderful. The tempo is relaxed, her voice is rich, her style unpretentious, the harmonies play really well, as does the rhythm, and the songs she's written are really good. I really really liked them. It was all kinda beautiful and poignant and stuff. But not yick or labourious about it. Real nice. They are calling themselves Imogen now, and I think they're going to stick with that. So check them out, Melbournites [and then, of course, the rest of the world].

Have just read a review of The Passion of the Christ that manages to articulate my response to the film in a way that my garbled glibness never could. The review is by The Age's Tom Ryan [who I think I have quoted before to bring some clarity to my attempts at expressing an opinion about a film. I think his spot-on-ness also helped with The Crime of Father Amaro. Hmmmm, I think I might love this guy]. Anyway, of Mel's film, he writes,

"It's adventurous and uncompromising in various ways... But it's also content to ride along on the intensity of the violence and the audience's knowledge of what's to come without ever doing any more than sketching in a human context for Christ's sacrifice."
"Had Gibson spent time detailing [the human factors and political context] more precisely, the film might have worked much better as a drama".

Exactly baby. See, the film didn't work! Oh Tom, you do my thinking much better than me. Unsung hero of Australian film review, you are. Forget the Schembri/Martin debate [which Adrian Martin clearly wins, btw], Ryan is the go [but so is Martin]. Anyway, yay Tom Ryan.

Just had an envy spike. Belle de Jour got a book deal. Which is good. I think she's interesting and I read everything she writes, so... yeah it's fine. Her life, and the way she renders it, would make an excellent book. Check out her blog [see links] to see the future bestseller in its earliest form. And seriously, I don't actually think Symposiasts could be a book [well, not a good one], I just wish that enough people were reading it that publishers would consider giving us a deal simply to cash in on the popular support. And the words book deal, they give me shivers. I just irrationally want one because other people are getting them.

Hmmm. From where is ET pulling all this 'never-before-seen' and 'long-lost' Martha footage, unprofessional outtakes, etc? Why wasn't this stuff ever screened before? But how good are they, that they managed to find it all in time to put to air the first opportunity they got after Martha's Friday conviction, when it would have greatest currency? Phew, those ET folks are pretty lucky... Wait. I'm getting suspicious. What if they didn't 'find' this stuff at all? What if they had it all along, and just decided not to screen it? I'm getting chills. Why would they do that? What would be behind such a decision? And what would be behind its reversal? Oh man! It just seems like they do whatever they can get away with, which is like, a kinda inexact way to run the 'most watched entertainment news program in the world'. And shitty. Like, maybe ET has been less than frank with me over the years? Giving me false impressions and stuff. Bastards. I'm rethinking our whole relationship as we speak. I mean, I put up with a lot of crap to be with you, ET. Mary Hart, for example. What's up with that? You owe me big time. So, baby, this crap don't fly, okay? It reveals way too much about you, and really I don't want to be faced with that, ever. Cool it.

Oh, and note to celebrities; THERE IS A VAULT. They collect everything. They'll protect you if they feel they have to, but, once you're convicted or out of favour, the vault is unlocked. As many awkward pauses and short angry snips as you ever mustered, they'll show. And then they'll do a feature on "Paris Hilton's mom; could she be the next Martha?" See, she's a contender for the position cos she's been like, and I quote, "throwing parties for friends for years". Way harsh, dudes. It's like you're saying everyone is replaceable, or something, when the body's barely cold.... But, why not? Could be a good idea actually....

Er, anyway, what I was trying to express today was my dissatisfaction about everything in this cycle being excessive. The fawning, the damning. Ergh. I mean, they don't push people at all, until they find they can push them face down in the mud. It's kinda extreme.

Has the blog changed colour again? I really don't mind at all... no, I'm fine. Anyway, the Period Romance page has now been updated so as to include Fermina's dramatic escape from her convent doom.

Everyone gots to watch State of Play which began on ABC TV last night. Totally good. Impeccable British cast, just totally involving. Check it out next Sunday night.

Oh man, am luxuriating in post-teen drama weepy emotional fuzzy brain. THANK YOU SO MUCH to Lauren and Amy [especially to Lauren] for being geniuses of TV taping. Have just been watching the final episodes of Dawson's Creek that I missed when I went to visit my sister in Darwin in January. So good. Also rewatched quite a few of the episodes preceding them that I had already seen, so bountiful is the beneficence of the great and wonderful Lauren. Hail to thee. Aaaah. So satisfied. Even though I knew what was going to happen, nothing really beats seeing it for yourself. Watching every great scene, and then every cringingly crap scene, and then another great one, and then another crap one, and so on etc. My god, I love that show. The entire final season rocked, cringe and all. And the final three episodes! Dudes, I've been bawling all afternoon. Oh man, that scene where Jen's like, getting angry about dying and stuff. Whoah. Totally slayed me. That girl can act. Hmmm. Think I might just go and watch it again. I mean, could there possibly be a better way to spend a public holiday than weeping on the couch and periodically saying "Amazing. Amazing"? Hnnn? I don't think so!

Period Romance

Alejandro was nervous. Although he had brushed against Fermina almost daily for most of his life while serving her meals, and had had her slim ankle and the small of her back regularly in his powerful grasp while boosting her into her riding saddle, nonetheless, their brief moments of physical contact or proximity had never lasted for anything like the extended period of time that was just commencing. In the carriage, the warmth of her adjacent body radiated into his thigh. Despite his pleasure, he was anxious, and all too aware that his time with her would soon be over. "Our time is running out", he silently mused, and the thought pained him. It would take a journey of a few days to reach the eastern port city of Valencia, from whence Fermina was due to depart. He dreaded their arrival there. It would be the last place he would ever see her dusky beauty, and, with every revolution of the carriage wheels, it was approaching. Alejandro willed Franz Ferdinand, the coachman, to drive too roughly over a rocky patch and damage a wheel or a hoof, granting more time for, for... Delay, delay. His immediate thoughts were of delay. Let us just be still, and alone! Oh, San Isidro, good saint, cannot you aid me by your divine graces while we remain in Madrid? Something needed to happen. They were approaching the Rio Manzanares already, and its dark waters filled him with foreboding. But it was not they that would take Fermina away from him. That honour resided in the deep well of the sea, with which, before long, his salty tears would mix without restraint. He would have to leave her there. And return in bitterness to Count Daza’s service. She would be lost to him forever. He dropped his head slightly under the growing weight of this realisation. Then he remembered himself, and moved his head almost imperceptibly to the left. His eye moved to its corner, and strained to fix upon her drowsy loveliness. His mind thundered with fractious arguments about what to do. The time was now, he knew, and it was slipping from him as each moment passed. He resisted the impulse to grab her and declare, “If you leave here, you’ll leave me broken!” For he did not wish to alter anything about the scene, or to stir her into shifting away from him. To feel the warmth of her body gave him the most profound joy he had yet experienced. His muscles were so tensed from maintaining his taut position beside her that he ached. He feared the loss of this contact, and was panicked by the thought, “If I move, this could die”. Yet how could he possibly hope to change any of what they were hurtling towards if he was too timid to fracture this new and long dreamt of intimacy? He had to break the silence while there was still time.

The carriage jolted. They had begun the chaotic task of negotiating Madrid’s unpaved lanes and alleys. The sudden jostling effected Fermina’s equilibrium, and she instinctively flung her arms out on each side, in blind search of something to steady her and keep her from toppling forward. When the violence had passed and she began to be accustomed to the carriage’s new rhythm, she looked down to find she had regained her balance by grabbing Alejandro’s knee, and that her hand had remained there for some duration. She flushed and looked at him wildly, withdrawing her hand quickly and delivering a breathy “I’m sorry”. As she cast her eyes down at the floor, she could feel his gaze upon her. Until this, he had seemed to her to be keenly focussed on some internal question. But now she felt as if something were about to happen, and didn’t know whether or not to be afraid.

The city walls would not be reached for a few minutes yet. Alejandro had made no plans, but only thought of how critical it was to intervene now, before it became too late. He tenderly reached out his hand and lifted Fermina’s chin, raising her gaze to meet his. He decided that to reveal his own feelings would only serve to shock her. Especially considering that she had just uttered the first direct words that they had ever exchanged. As the situation was urgent, he felt that now was not the time to declare everything he had ever felt and would forever feel for her. Though these were the feelings propelling him to act on her behalf, he felt their expression a hindrance to the task at hand. He loved her. He wanted her to stay. To be near her always was his life’s dream. But her life was slipping away from her. Her freedom was now paramount. “My Lady”, he whispered, “if you wish it and have courage, I won’t be leaving here with you”.

“Alejandro, what do you mean?”

“Please. There is little time. If you wish not to go where your father would have you put, if you wish to be free of his control but also of his protection, I would urge you to disappear into the city tonight. When we reach the gate, I will help you escape if you choose it”.

“Escape?”

“Yes. When the wall guards stop us, you can run away. I will continue to Valencia. No one will be wise to it until it is too late for them to find you. Is this what you want?”

“Yes. But I would not put you in harm’s way, and set my father’s will against you. Your mother…”

“Please, this is your only chance. The wall is approaching.”

The carriage had begun to slow. Fermina looked intently into Alejandro’s eyes, clasped his hand, and nodded. She felt the rush of hope fill her chest. Her life would be completely new. Alejandro shot her a warning look. “It will not be easy. In Madrid, there is nothing except what you bring with you. And you will not have much more than yourself. When I return, you may rest assured that I will find you. But I worry about these early days…” Alejandro could not bear to think of the multitude of dangers she would face. What if he had forced a rash decision upon her? But her intent gaze told him of the strength and depth of her resolve. The carriage stopped. “I will get out, and shield you with my body. Fermina, be careful. Run into the shadows.” Alejandro moved across her and opened the door. With agility, he stepped out of the carriage, and stood leaning with affected nonchalance against the frame, his cloak masking Fermina’s movement behind him. The guards began sidling over to conduct their cursory papers check, and Alejandro hissed, “Go!” Fermina pressed herself to his muscular back for the briefest of moments, a silent farewell, then moved quietly around to the back of the carriage and rushed across the street into the darkness of a nearby lane. She couldn’t help thinking, “This is so stupid!” But neither could she help feeling exhilarated by the immediate enlargement of her prospects. In a moment, she was enveloped by the city. Alejandro finished with the guards, returned to the carriage, and, once the gates had been opened, choked out the order - “Take me out.”

Happenings are timely, aren't they? See, it's my turn to write the next instalment of our piece of Romantic Fiction, and I've been fretting about how exactly to turn Fermina loose into a 15th century Madrid that actually resembles, well, 15th century Madrid. I had no idea of how to make it up. But, happily, mum is off to Europe soon and has her trusty Lonely Planet - Madrid on hand. So I'll get myself well-informed on the ins and outs of the place at that time, and then make sure to chuck all that useful information out of the running, in favour of the 'artistic licence' policy we have here at Symposiasts Romantic Press. I might even find Fermina a clean dorm room for 20 euro a night, who knows? Anyway, the next instalment will soon be forthcoming. And, psst, if I were you, I'd be expecting a more 19th century version of Madrid [which will be based on London, anyway, as slums and whores are gonna feature heavily]. Or perhaps not. Have just read that, around Fermina's time [but not exactly] Madrid was kinda perfect for our purposes, seeing as "amid the squalor in which the bulk of its people toiled, royalty and the aristocracy gave themselves over to sickening displays of wealth and cavorted happily in their make-believe world of royal splendour". Excellent random choice of location, Guy. Bring on Madrid! Not to spoil it for you or anything, but you didn't really expect we'd send her off to a nunnery isle, did you?

Oh dear. The opening "salvo" in the upcoming US election has taken the form of an ad recently released by the Republicans featuring September 11 footage, (American flag, survivors in rubble etc.), with superimposed images of Bush looking presidential, and then some tag line about how "in times of change you need leadership you can trust". Oh dear. Not surprisingly, this has proved contoversial among families of the victims of the trade centre attacks, but they're releasing it anyway, saying something about how people need a "reminder" of Bush's sterling post-S11 leadership. I can't believe he's running on a leadership platform - like if they say it enough, it'll come true.

Feeling a bit more confident about thesis, in that there are at least pieces of it now that seem kinda cool. Something, at least, is emerging from the murky crapness of early drafts. That said, I've now realised that for the next three months I'm pretty much gonna have to become some kind of hermit freak if I wanna do well. On the other hand, realistically I think there's a limit to how much I can work. Take today for example, by 5pm, I could think no more, so I poured a G&T, and decided not to think. This is perhaps a bad strategic move, but I can't help it. I'm weak. I don't understand those people who can pull all nighters. Where does that focus come from? I would just panic and pace around the room alot - I certainly couldn't churn out an essay. Seeing The Passion of the Christ tonight... Can't wait to have an opinion!

That was a joke outburst, btw (or the ultimate piece of passive aggression?). I quite like the new layout, although would like to be informed next time, if only so as am able to cut and paste various details. Anyway, am very excited about recent purchases. Firstly, just yesterday bought Natalie Merchant's The House Carpenter's Daughter. For those who don't know, this is a collection of traditional and contemporary folk music that Ms Merchant's collected from archives, churches and various other "folky" type places across the USA. And the result is BRILLIANT - I love this album! Particularly Bury Me Under the Weeping Willow ("well, tomorrow was to be my wedding day/ but oh, my god, where can he be?") and Weeping Pilgrim ("well I weep and I moan and I move slowly on/ I'm a poor mourning pilgrim bound for Canaan land"). It's such a relief to have a new Natalie Merchant album that isn't a total downer. While this is a sad album, you don't have to be catatonically depressed to listen to it (which you do have to be to listen to Ophelia, which I happen to think is one of the best albums ever. Pity I can't listen to it). So, yay for The House Carpenter's Daughter. Also, am reading James Baldwin's Go Tell It on the Mountain, which is about a black preacher's son growing up in the 1930s, coming to terms with his rejection of God, homosexuality and bastard father. Possibly one of the best books I've read in a long time (probably since Patrick White's Riders in the Chariots, which gave me nightmares in which I saw evil), so yay for Baldwin too. Feeling very culturally stimulated this week.

Elanor, I think this blogging relationship is getting dangerously passive-aggressive. You change a font, I change a font. You remove quotation marks, I replace them. You change the entire site design. This is like bored-marriage sabotage going on here. Anyway, I’m OK with new colour scheme (although I did not choose it myself… but I’m fine). I’ve fixed up the commenting system, site meter and various other things that didn’t make the change-over. I shall now consider myself some kind of martyr for a few weeks, at least, but if you mention it, it’s no big deal…

Cool. Bought tickets to the Von Bondies today. And the Comedy Festival program is coming out tomorrow. My weekend is gonna be so fun! Making up an itinerary, etc. I'm a genius of logistics when I wanna be. If anyone else is interested in seeing shows, let me know and I'll try to figure you into my "buy early and often" ticket calculations. Damn I need more money. The Comedy Festival usually costs me about $500. Crap.

Recently, I've been reading NME a lot [a convergence of the facts of actually having to leave the house for uni, and of uni being accessed 'via' a newsagency]. Now, NME is a bit of a fickle bitch. Seems to have turned against The Darkness big time, with catty asides and fresh talk accompanying any mention of them. Now, they're "corporate bell-end slurping novelty rockers", who are "deeply unpopular...in the NME heartland". You're the ones who told me to love them! And I do at the moment. So don't say they're past it when it's only been about 5 months! It is possible to love a band forever and still have room for every other brand-new "NME-championed Brit Pack band" that comes along. Take it easy. There's enough room for everybody [and enough especially for a guy with his own name tattooed on his bicep].

Anyway, inspired by Loneliness Electric, I have decided to also attempt a diary of my cultural consumption [even though that's pretty much what this blog has always been]. Now, I'm not Claud, so the focus will be less on German contemporary feminist literature, and more on TV. So, the 'culture' diary begins.

I gave Mondo Thingo another go tonight. Much improved. I think I might keep watching it. It was kinda good.

Watched Dateline the other night. Apparently the US just orchestrated a coup against the democratically elected president of Haiti and then kidnapped his arse all the way to the Central African Republic [according to his lawyer]. Why didn't I know this?

I still totally love Letterman.

Also, still totally love The Simpsons. Saw that cool Streetcar Named Desire as musical episode recently. Still so good. Particularly love the scene when Flanders is doing the "STELLAAAAAA!" bit, and then breaking into a rockin song that goes,

"Stella.
Can't you hear me yella?
I've been goin through hella,
[something something]... fella.
Oh Stella!"

And so forth. Also loved it when Marge delivers Blanche's famous poignant line, "I've always depended on the kindness of strangers", and then the chorus immediately put on their happy hands and sings the rousing ditty "You can always depend on the kindness of strangers..." dee dee dee dee do, la la la la la.

Read an article in the Green Guide today about Friends and had to agree with the writer, who was quite perplexed at it being described as 'one of the greatest sitcoms of our times'. She found that "apparently, Friends gets high marks for merely being competent - not hilarious" which was a fair call. It is competent, but I rarely laugh. Hmmm. Maybe I should stop watching it or something? Same goes for Sex and the City. I'm really finding that show hella-annoying. Carrie's thoughts and questions as she formulates her column ideas are the most excruciating moments in television that I can find, other than when 60 Minutes does stories about the personal travails of its own reporters, with requiste close-ups of their 'human side', ie, teary episodes etc. Grrr. Anyway, back to Sex. The clothes still rule, but Carrie really needs to stop talking, and Samantha's vein of humour has been plumbed as far as it can be plumbed, and now her 'saucy' lines come across as a parody of their former selves. But I'm still watching of course. Even though I already know how it ends, with Carrie and Big and all. I really like Big. And if anyone starts telling me that the ending they went with was "a slap in the face for single women eveywhere", just don't, okay? Coz I'll slap you.

Anyway, that's my 'culture' diary for the moment. I'm going to the revamped National Gallery of Victoria tomorrow, but don't expect much of a response from me about that. I'm not very art literate. I might steal some of what Leah says about the works, and republish them here, but failing that, all I'll be able to offer you is "that's cool", and "that's, like, not cool". On the subject of art illiteracy, does anyone understand how to value poetry? I'd like to learn these things. Maybe I'll learn about art stuff at the gallery tomorrow, but exposure has never helped me before. I feel like a dick only knowing what I like. I want to know art, damnit!

Oooh, Elanor – now I fully understand your recent post about being a university “elder”. For some reason this year everyone just seems so young. Colourful, perky, carefree – the place looks like a cross between Temptation Island and Dawson’s. I just felt so alien going back (a sentiment shared by many). Maybe I’m finally reaching my expiration date? Even people in my Honours coursework subjects seem like babies. Cause I started mid-year 2003, I’m basically half a year ahead of everyone else. This allows me to sneak a wry smile as people talk about their proposed thesis topic. With an innocent, naïve glint in their eyes they talk about “making an intervention into the comparative blah blah relating to the poetics of blah blah, in a study informed by blah blah”. Just wait til you try and write the thing! Then you’ll stop reaching for the stars, give up the idea of making a critical “intervention”, realise that most things that are vaguely interesting have been said before, decide that the best option is a quiet nervous breakdown/existential crisis in lieu of actually doing any work, then eventually spurt out something passable as the panic finally hits. Enjoy the “journey” as your thesis changes from delightful baby to be lovingly nurtured and tended, to horrid parasite that simply needs to be expelled…

Okay, here's my Oscars round-up:

Lord of the Rings kicked arse and I am glad. But where the hell was Viggo?

LOVED Liv Tyler's glasses.

LOVED Liv Tyler's hair.

Among the Well Dressed were; Liv Tyler, Sofia Coppola, Susan Sarandon, Renee Zellweger, Scarlett Johannson, and Oprah "don't talk to me about rich, girlfriend" Winfrey.

Among the Poorly Dressed were; Diane Lane, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Sandra Bullock [who looked like a trashy beauty pageant contestant who equated feathers with glamour. Which might just be ironic].

Beating all-comers in the Horribly Dressed category was; Jennifer Garner. HORRIBLE!

John Travolta sported the Worst Hair of the night.

Tobey Maguire looks and talks real good. Yep. Was also sporting Best Hair (Male) of the night. [Liv of course won Best Hair (Female)].

Had to laugh when Sting and Phil Collins presented an award together, remembering Tom's comment about how Sting's post-Police career has been spent trying to be Peter Gabriel. Which became even funnier when I thought about how Phil's had been spent trying to beat Peter Gabriel in the post-Genesis stakes. I enjoyed that.

Robin Williams is so over.

I think that there were two Oscar Injustices. Firstly, I think that the song from A Mighty Wind should have won best original song, for no other reason than to make up for the unforgiveable slight that saw the Spinal Tap oeuvre ignored. Shame. Second injustice I can't be completely sure about, having seen neither of the performances, but I think the clip reel showed that Naomi Watts should have won the Best Actress award over Charlize.

To end on a high note, I would like to share with you what I consider to be the Best Call Of The Night. It occurred during Billy Crystal's opening medley. Billy talks about how Sofia shot Lost in Translation in just 27 days, and then quips,

"it took Francis that long to get Brando out of bed".

Haahaahhhaaaa! Sweet. Love that Apocalypse Now humour.

Just caught a hilarious Golden Globes moment. As Nicole Kidman won for Best Actress last year, as tradition would have it she's required to present the award for Best Actor. This year, quite unfortunately, the candidates included Tom Cruise, Jude Law and Russel Crowe. Perhaps anticipating this awkwardness, Nicole wandered onstage in a somewhat drunk/drugged manner. She mumbled out the nominees like a trooper, announced the winner Sean Pean, then mumbled "am I finished now?", at which point some minder whispered something to her and she stepped aside. Sean Penn, however, wasn't able to attend, so director Clint Eastwood decided to accept instead. As he climbed to the stage, Nicole lurched towards the microphone and said "you're not Sean Penn!", while laughing hysterically, at which point she was once again ushered away from the mic. The Globes are so much more fun that than Oscars, if only cause the celebs spend the whole time getting wasted at their tables to alleviate their bordedom.

Period Romance

OK, bereft of any real inspiration, I've added a bit, finally getting Fermina outside the walls of La Denetrione. What happens next is up to you, Elanor. As I mentioned earlier, the complete transcript can be found here.

She was to leave for Espantaso de la Alumbramiento Virginal immediately. The Count Daza would not back down – this Fermina knew. She was to leave tonight, and it was with a weary resignation that she went about packing her meagre posessions, and saying goodbye to the home, the prison, that she had known all these years.

It was under the cold watch of darkness that she descended the stone steps towards the family coach that was to take her to the port. As per the Count’s wishes, Alejandro was to accompany Fermina for the first leg of the journey. This provided her with a slight relief – as her world seemed to be collapsing around her, at least this familiar noble face would shine a small ray of light into the darkness that lay ahead.

It was a face Fermina had known since her childhood. Alejandro’s family had been living within the walls of La Denetrione for centuries, in the humble servant’s quarters tucked in the corner between the stables and rookery. It was a building that could just be glimpsed from Fermina’s window, and it was with a sometimes obsessive interest that she had watched Alejandro develop from small, playful child, to roughly handsome man – a transformation that Fermina barely noticed happen until it was complete. Perhaps because of this separate yet shared history, Fermina felt she could trust him – as much as she could trust any man.

She soon reached the carriage and handed her bags to the driver. The Count was not to see her off, although she felt his watchful eyes upon her. His quarters were directly above the entrance-way, and she knew that he would be watching the proceedings below, if only to ensure that they proceeded smoothly. Before she stepped into the coach, Fermina turned round for one last time.
“Goodbye La Denetrione. Goodbye”. With this, she leaped up, and gingerly seated herself in the compartment, ignoring Alejandro’s outstretched hand.
“Drive,” she said, and within seconds, the horses had sprung to life, and she was being swept out beyond the stone walls of her former home. With Alejandro by her side, and her old life a distant memory, Fermina surged forth into the dark, dusty streets of Madrid. The city. For this brief instant – between her former prison, and the prison that awaited her – the city was hers.

The Period Romance will now be stored on a seperate, romantic site, for easy access. There's a permanent link too, so with each update, we'll be able to get some idea of how the whole thing's unfolding.

Am totally loving Britney's Toxic. Firstly because I like the song [a first for me and Britney] and secondly because at the beginning of the clip, she picks up a phone and holds it to her ear and then turns to face the camera and direct the saucy question, "Baby can't you see - I'm callin?", at us. And I'm like, "well yeah, Britney, I can see that. You're standing right there... holding a phone". I just loved how literally they matched up lyric and image. Inspired. I also like the clip because it features Martin Henderson being pushed around raunchily by Britney. I repeat, that's Martin Henderson, from Echo Point and Sweat [of which Heath Ledger is also an alum. Hmmm, am I using the word "alum" correctly?]. I mean, Echo Point and Sweat!!! And he's in a frickin Britney clip! I just think that it must be a great world if a guy can go from laughably memorable Aussie soap to Britney. It makes me happy. Maybe it says more about me, but I really think that this means he's arrived. Big time.

OK, reading an article about audience reaction to The Passion of the Christ in The Age this morning and stumbled across this:
"...Not everyone was feeling the love. Non-believers Leah..., 22 and Elanor..., 22, thought the film was silly. "It was over visual," Leah said. "I was fascinated to see how a film that was supposed to be realistic and accurate was going to portray the story, and thought it was quite programmatic and didn't work". Yay! You guys got to be the designated "young non-believers", and sounded very academic to boot...

I saw The Passion of the Christ today. Hmmm. This might sound strange, but Leah and I found it to be a bit silly, cheesy even. It was earnest silly. Everything was just played as so damn significant, with building music, or drums, or slow motion movement, or all three at once. It seemed like no-one could look in Jesus’ eyes without being struck by the wonder and significance of his very soul. Too many shots of people looking ‘deep’ to count. Despite being told I “will need tissues”, I didn’t. And I’m not going to advise you take any because I don’t think you’ll need any either. The characters don’t behave normally with one another. There’s this distance imposed by the reverence people feel for Jesus. And conversations were restricted to lines from the Bible, and so clanged a bit when heard in a real setting. It was an odd vibe. It was like iconic imagery overload, so it seemed OTT rather than real. And OTT is not moving or profound. It was kinda funny or strange or clichéd, and didn't really work. Here are some of the things that I remember. [Just so you know, if I refer to god at all, I only mean him to be understood as a character in the movie]

When Jesus was freakin out in Gethsemane, and he’s like, having a crisis of faith and asking god to maybe like, let him not have to die for the sake of all humanity. Anyway, the devil’s next to him, and Jesus is freakin, and the clouds move over the moon and somehow that means that the devil is winning. Because now it’s dark. And then he’s like “Father…” blah blah and stuff and he’s still talking to god and the clouds pass, so now he’s praying in light, and god’s there and the devil can’t win, so there. But, I was like, “What are we saying here? That god’s the moon?” It was strange. I thought god was like, the whole sky, and everything and stuff. Even shadows.

There were some good scenes. Like when Judas is hiding under the bridge, and then a chained and beaten Jesus gets pushed over the edge and is hanging in pain before Judas’ eyes, and Judas can see what harm and pain he has put his friend in the way of, and he looks in Jesus’ eyes, etc. That was quite affecting. But then some weird ghost screamed past, and the moment was gone. Also, the scene when Jesus is getting scourged is worthy too. People seem to have had issues with this, but I don’t. I have no problem with a ‘sickening’, ‘gory’, ‘gruesome’ or ‘pornographic’ dramatisation of scourging and crucifixion. These acts are sickening and gory etc. Der. Torture, pain, excessively violent punishment, done by the ‘right’ people to show the ‘wrong’ people how bad they are. So stupid. And it needs to be shown. Killing people is wrong. But even that scene is still cheesy, and full of cliché. Like, for instance, the Roman scourge guys are all amoral drunken louts making jokes and laughing laughing laughing as they slash and tear Jesus’ skin apart. As if. That’s such a movie idea/cliché. There probably was never a punisher who ever behaved like that. I reckon they’d all be self-disgusted and on anti-depressants because of their work-related stress. No joy in their tasks. Also, I think it needs to be noted that blood does dry and crust up at some point. Or maybe Jesus is so divine that his is constantly oozy. I'm no theological scholar.

When Mary runs to Jesus after he’s fallen over [again and again and again] while carrying his god-damned cross, you expect this meaningful moment between mother and son as they look into each other’s eyes, perhaps for the last time. But then Jesus says something totally random like “Mother. I will make everything new” or something, and you’re like, “What are you talking about, dude? And why is the music rising?”

The location was great. Really nice. Made a cool backdrop to the crucifixion. But when they showed the devil in hell, it looked like a scene from Buffy. And when they visited King Herod, it looked like we had moved onto the set of Xena. Ooh, and there was this bit where the devil is carrying a creepy child, with like, an old midget face. Anyway, the aesthetic of that reminded me of City of Lost Children, by that french guy.

The funniest moment of the film was when the chick gives Jesus a towel. I was kinda softly giggling as he pressed it to his face, and then when he gave it back to the chick I was like, “Lady, don’t crumple it. You might smudge it. Don’t you know how much you could get for that thing on eBay?” Jeez. Anyway, a few moments later there she is, back in the crowd, still staring at Jesus, too distracted by his presence to notice that she has a white cloth hanging from her hand with Jesus’ face printed on it. Money shot. Hahhahahaah! Anyway, that was the only time during the movie that I almost cracked up. I would have laughed more at the preposterous solemnity of the whole thing, but there was this woman in the cinema with a lace kerchief veil on her head. I think maybe people were treating the movie as a religious experience or something. Weird. Actually, the venue was being precious about it too. There were no previews before the movie, except for one ‘public service announcement’ featuring that celibate rugby player and Paulini from Aus Idol and some other sports guy, and they were talking about how the story of Jesus “changed my life” and about how “this is a true story. If you want to find out more, go to thepassion.org.au”. Which was all a bit, um, weird. And kinda creepy.

Anyway, at the end of the movie, there’s Jesus, all nice and clean again, resurrected in his tomb. And the light’s pouring in, and he looks happy, and I’m glad about that because he’s a good sort and the poor chap’s been through a bit. Still has holes in his hands to prove it and all. Anyway, then he stands up and walks out of his tomb into the light of the world. End movie. That’s nice and all, but do you wanna know what I was thinking? I was thinking “Whoah! I just saw Jesus’ butt”. And then I was thinking, “Hey, this is a bit like Terminator”. You know, a naked guy coming from ‘another place’ and striding out naked on a naked mission to save the world? I don’t know what the music was actually like, but I’ve had the Terminator theme in my head since.

So that’s The Passion for me; preposterously epic. Go and rent Jesus of Montreal if you want to watch a Passion movie. And ooh, Leah and I were interviewed by a lady from The Age about our impressions of the film. If she can find a way to work the words “silly”, “cheesy” or "meh" into her piece, maybe our opinions will be published in the paper tomorrow?

I just saw the funniest thing. It was a scene from Gigli. There was a piece on TV about the Razzies, you see. Anyway, the sexy exchange went thusly. J.Lo was lying on a bed playfully rocking her knee and looking at Ben who was on an opposite bed [they were in a twin bed hotel room or something]. Anyway, this was the exchange:

J.Lo: "It's turkey time".
Ben: [confused] "What?"
J.Lo: [nods at her nether regions] "Gobble gobble".

Haaahahahaha! I think they thought they were being 'witty'. And I am laughing. Now I really want to see that film.

After having the threat float out there for months, the other day Bush addressed the nation and said straight out that he would be agitating for a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage. It's on. The thing better not pass, [come on Congress and a 2/3 majority of the states, use your human pieces and some rational thought to reject it] because at the moment the argument can still be made that such a denial of equal rights is unconstitutional, and therefore courts can undo unjust laws etc. If a discriminatory idea makes it into the constitution, things are fucked. Also, I want to hear Kerry say "separate is not equal" and come out in favour of marriage. His current position is untenable.

Also feeling aged after visiting uni which is now swarming with baby-faced first years carrying balloons and dressed to score. You can tell I'm getting "mature" by the fact I seek the less-traveled routes (eg faculty buildings) to navigate my way round (by navigate I mean travel from entrance to library and back). Ahhh, seems so long ago that I was fresh-faced. No slow-burning worry of imminent future-related apocalypse. So many nameless crushes! Profound crushes, too. There was that guy who worked in the library for a bit, that guy with the grey bag, that guy who looked "beachy" etc. etc. Such innocence... blah blah blah. Must remind myself I'm still only 22, in a vomit-inducing successful relationship and learn to "breathe".

And in a quick pop wrap-up, have just been informed that Paris Hilton's first musical venture is to be titled "Screwed", which I think is utterly fantastic (smart girl!). Also, Kylie's "Body Language" has tanked somewhat in the US, lending more weight to alarmist "Kylie is over" rumours. After that extremely annoying Queer Eye appearance (Why? Over hyped for all of its three minutes, she did that annoying barbie routine, and she had a strange Donatella Versace look to her), I might be altering my until now loyal position. Maybe the Kylies of the world have been made redundant by more honestly pointless celebs a la Paris Hilton? Although actually I still have no doubt that Kylie will rise phoenix-like from the ashes to launch another stunning comeback 2-3 years down the track. AND one final thing: Madonna tour rumours circulating, with the likely name being the "Whore of Babylon Tour". Ace.

Well, I'm two days into my Journalism degree at RMIT and here are my thoughts. How is it possible that, before, I could drift along and two weeks could go by without me really noticing it? And yet, the last two days took aaages to get through. We've only just ticked over into Wednesday for god's sake! I don't know what it is. I have a good timetable, only three days a week, with a maximum of three classes on any given day, so it should be breezy. Well, it is. Nothing particularly taxing is going on. It's just weird that the time doesn't pass. Time hangs around. On the bus home today I was thinking, "Fuck. It's only Tuesday". I can't remember what happened on Sunday it seems so long ago. Anyway, it seems that everyone in my course just left school. I'm OLD. They're nice and friendly and inclusive and all. And I've somehow managed to become part of a posse. I don't know how that happened, but they keep saying hello and sticking around. And then we move off to a lecture in a pack. Like this morning. I was sitting in the courtyard happily reading my freshly purchased NME, when I heard "Elanor" and it's one of the girls from the posse I'm in. So she joins the table. And then two others come along. And then, as the minutes pass, there are more and more until we become a veritable 'gaggle'. And I realised that I was the beginning of it [though probably not the star attraction]. What's up with that? I think they all took some class at the end of school that taught them to always greet and smile etc, because breaking the ice is most of the battle won, or something, and once that's done, to hang on for dear life. Stupid class. I'm sure it won't last beyond the first few weeks. Except that it probably will, considering that there are only 45 people in the course and we pretty much do the same thing for three years. The thing is, even though they're real nice and all, I can't find one that I really want to spend time with. Maybe that's because it's only day two and I don't know them. I just wish that the time would pass so that it could sort itself out. I'm sure we're all just being polite. I don't enjoy it because I keep reverting to my default social persona, and I don't like my default social persona. I wish I could change it, because it's so bland. But it's default. And I keep having to provide backstory, which I hate, because then they have the right to expect that my excess age and 'life experience' has kitted me out with verbal and social whizbangery, only to be presented with the dull horror of my default social persona. But they're still around. Perhaps not for long. You see, today I became a freak. It happened like this. Just after sitting down for the introductory tute of one of my classes [otherwise known as "The First Impressions Tute"] I was struck by a sudden onset blood nose and had to leave with a hanky crumpled to my face. It was a real bleeder too. I was in the bathroom for fully twenty minutes and the thing was flowing. Anyway, when I finally had it staunched, I returned to class, calmly apologised and explained that I had had a blood nose. No big deal. But no. "Are you alright? Are you sure? Oh, we've got to do something about the heat in this room", etc. To which I replied that no, it wasn't the heat, it was just that I'd been laid up with a bad cold all weekend, and had a ferocious cough and I'd had a blood nose the night before anyway [which wasn't as bloody, but a blood nose nonetheless]. Lady, I'm just sick is all. [Wait, do I have leukaemia?] So, class moves on, but every so often lovely tutor goes "Elanor, are you alright?", reviving attention just when it might have flagged. She seems like a good tutor though. And she was trying very hard to remember people's names. She knows mine now. And so do my classmates, probably. I'm the freak that bleeds. The OLD freak that bleeds. The OLD feak that bleeds and who cannot find anything good to talk about to entertain the young set with which she now runs. That's me.

I know what I'll do. I'll buy more clothes.

Elanor tried to get me to read this a few weeks back, and even added a permanent link, but I was like "yeah, whatever" and ignored her. Can I just apologise, cause I recently gave it another read, and this latest post is hilarious. For anyone who has ever thought that, secretly, John Howard talks like a valley girl...

Paris Hilton's ex, and sextape consort, has decided to leave scruples aside and start peddling his wares on his new website, Trustfundgirls.com, because (according to E! News) "Everybody said I did this tape. Everybody thought I did it. I've just been getting ridiculed forever, [so] now I did it,". Although he's quick to add that "I didn't do it in the beginning". While claiming that he's been forced into releasing the tape against his will, he's at the same time promising "stunning crisp images". Also - and nothing shocks anymore - there's talk of a pay-per-view screening (although Paris has said to have rejected this "opportunity"). One should keep in mind that the original victim of the leaked-porn-tape debacle, Pamela Anderson, eventually stopped suing various net porn ventures and decided to release the tape herself, making millions in the process, and ironically ensuring some desperately needed career longevity.

Period Romance

I was looking back over our aborted Period Romance and was thinking that, perhaps, we could press forth, finally allowing Fermina to meet her pirate love? Anyway, I've dusted the thing off, and compressed my own and Elanor's installments in order to present this, our untitled romance, as it stands thus far. I'm very impressed that there even seems to be a "missing fragment", which adds a sense of authenticity to the whole thing. If anyone does actually read it, I'd appreciate suggestions as to where it should go from here (conventiently, we have a comments section!).

"Madrid, Spain, 1437

Fermina de la Saint-Amour was lost in thought. Sitting delicately beside her bedroom window, her eyes were drawn towards the hot, sultry, sticky city that snaked out before her. A soft breeze, tinged with the scent of bitter almonds, was lightly touseling her still damp hair, while sneaking through the weave of her white muslin gown to dance across her soft olive skin.

She felt empty. What did life promise her but misery and regret? The luxuries and riches that enveloped her were but a prison: a gilded cage of ennui and sadness. She wanted more. She wanted life to shake her; to throw at her all the danger and excitement that it could muster. She sought suffering. A suffering that would erase the scars of her father, the Count Daza’s cruel dominance.

Never far from her mind was the knowledge that only a few feet away, he could be found pacing the halls of his mansion, the “La Denetrione”, brooding over the wheelings and dealings of his machiavellian existence. To her, the city below promised escape. Within its rank heat and throbbing crowds she saw nothing but freedom. Freedom, and the promise of something more…

Fermina shook her head, and willed herself out of such an enchanting fancy. For she knew that today, like everyday, that prospect would be denied her. She had reached an age where it was no longer considered decent to venture unaccompanied into the city that had been her refuge as a child. She was now not even able to accompany Rosamunda, the houskeeper, on errands or to the market, as she was told that her presence in such surroundings could tarnish her, and reflect poorly on her station. If she was rarely seen, she became a rare commodity, and her father could control the kind of people who saw her so that she was made available only to those with specific intentions. She knew all this. It had been decided for her. So, with a sigh, she coiled her hair and fastened it at the nape of her neck. She then bent to gather up her embroidered house gown, and stray ebony tendrils fell across her cheek. Having fastened the eyes of her gown, she composed herself and moved languidly out of the room. She had to perform her duty, and appear before [missing fragment...]

“Father”, Fermina whispered, eyes downcast.
“How are you this morning, my sweet daughter?” The Count did not wait for an answer, for he was not used to interruptions, even from his kin, “it is a beautiful morning, is it not - the sun shines over our fair Madrid, the birds sing - it truly is a beautiful morning”. His cheery obfuscations sent a chill through her spine; the Count did not concern himself with life’s trivialities, unless… unless concealed beneath lay a grander design. “On such a day as this, it seems a shame to be trapped, as it were, behind the cold walls of La Denetrione, especially for someone of your beauty”. The last word he mouthed languidly, as his eyes met hers. She looked away. What could he possibly mean? Could he at last be offering her the glimpse of freedom she had for so long craved? As her mind drifted towards familiar thoughts of escape, the manservant Alejandro poured into her empty cup some pomegranate juice. She glanced at him, but his eyes would not meet hers. Her mental wanderings soon ended as the Count’s booming voice flared back to life.

“You have been cloistered behind these walls for too long Fermina. You are a woman now, a grown woman. There is a limit to what you can learn from Rosamunda and myself; to what you can learn from within La Denetrione…” With a burst of feeling, Fermina began to entertain the impossible thought that perhaps today, after all these empty years, the Count Daza could be about to offer her the freedom she had for so long craved; the freedom her mother had won all those years ago. Her heart began to soar, releasing within her feelings of hope, passion and desire that had slept dormant for the entirety of her empty life.
“It is for this reason that I have decided to…” Fermina was aware that her fate rested on the words that were to follow. The difference between joy and sadness, life and death – her future stood before this rhetorical precipice. She felt a burning within her as she waited for the Count’s intent to be revealed…

“It is for this reason that I have decided to send you to live with the order of Espantaso de la Alumbramiento Virginal…” With these words, Fermina’s heart sank into the familiar depths of despair and hopelessness from which it had ever so briefly been released.
“You will leave tomorrow at dawn, sailing on La Transferencia. Alejandro will accompany you…” By this point Fermina was no longer following the Count’s cruel words. She was once again resigned to her fate, her imprisonment. The possibilities and dreams that only seconds before had seemed so close, so real, were now as distant as the dark mountains that ringed Madrid – merely shadows that lurked beyond reach. With all the rage that her limp heart could muster, she looked the Count squarely in the eye and slowly whispered the words that were to seal her fate.
“I hate you, father, I hate you!”

An intense silence followed, alleviated only by Alejandro’s sharp inhalation of breath. But Fermina’s eyes remained defiantly fixed on her father, in the hope of catching some approximately human reaction in his face before it fled to make way for the steely impassivity that usually resided there. She was seeking some sign that her declaration had at least momentarily revealed a chink in the supremely indifferent façade that he had presented to her all the days of her life. With some horror, though little surprise, she was made to finally realise that it was no façade at all. He was indifferent, and quite genuinely so. He was no actor. He had been indifferent to her love when she had loved him - a childish folly, you must concede, but one to which all children are prone – and he had been indifferent to the disappearance of that love once he had killed it. So it stood to reason that her hatred - long felt but only newly performed - would be insufficient to register some acknowledgment in him. In the face of her anger, however forceful or implacable it might have been, he would feel no compulsion to alter his position. Her changes meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him.

Flames of humiliation licked her face, and yet, his mind had moved to other matters. His attention switched back to the papers before him, as if the interlude that had scorched her with such vehemence had not even occurred. Time passed. The blood roared in her ears. Her eyes prickled. Her mind was filled with shouting, as she attacked the situation from as many angles as her rage was propelling her to find. Perhaps it was pure futility that she lamented his carelessness in regard to her. She knew his faults, and she knew them to be rabid and numerous. She even knew that, had she lived her life in the knowledge that he adored her, she would have scorned his love. Had such a love existed at all, she would have seen that it was tainted by its source. But still, she was cut to the quick by his matter-of-fact dismissal of her self in its entirety. When the value of one’s existence is rejected or denied, it is a potent slap. It wallops you, irrespective of whether it has been delivered by a wholly detestable figure. And such wounds can only inflame further when you know that all you have to offer in life is your existence, when you are a woman of mean education and without the consolations of work or a public life, and when there is no other hook on which to hang your identity besides your presence in a household. And now Fermina was to be banished even from that meagre position. She had thought it impossible that she could exist in a more pronounced state of invisibility, or that she could ever be made to feel more keenly that she was worth little in the eyes of others. But she was now to be removed even from those around her who, in a practical sense, at least had to think of her on a daily basis, even if such thoughts were tinged with irritation. So, she was consigned to further degradation.

And yet, though her reeling mind had fixed upon no source of consolation, she began to regain her composure. It was a measure of how much of it she had clawed back that, a few minutes later, she had regained enough to be darkly amused when, having emerged from his papers, her father’s face contorted into a startled gape when he found, to his astonishment, that she was still there. It was laughable that he should have been so astounded, and yet, it was characteristic of his thinking. She knew that, to his mind, she should have ceased to exist as a presence in his life after he had made final and binding arrangements to be rid of her. It would seem to him a galling miscalculation to find that she remained, and that his decision would not acquit itself in actuality until the morning. But the fault would rest with Time, not him. And it would pass. It was a pittance, but Fermina felt that that look on her father’s face, when enlivened by an instant of unpreparedness, was the only victory she would ever win. Now that she would be leaving his house, consigned to some distant hole, she had the feeling that it would be the only memory she had amassed over her lifetime with him to show that she had once had an effect on his selfish composure. Her presence had been felt. But it was a paltry memento to account for the only life she had yet known….

Just creating some pre-release buzz for The Passion of the Christ, Mel "men and women are not equal" Gibson's biblical extravaganza that's hitting cinemas soon. It's fun watching the publicity they're spinning over this. It's the same as for any other blockbuster, it just involves God. Like how there were miracles on set and how Jim Caviezel got "hit by lightening". Instead of leaks about romantic liaisons in the studio lot, we hear whispers that the movie was definitely "blessed by God" (and the Pope, although that claim was retracted I think). Just saw a little piece on US ABC news about how all the community-based Christian organisations over there (i'm inferring the more fundamentalist ones) are in over-drive trying to publicise the film, as this is seen as the biggest bit of publicity for God in "2000 years". Explicit mixing of commercialism and religion always creeps me out (naive that I am), and I'm very much looking forward to watching this while eating popcorn in a multiplex, just to feel the weirdness of the whole endeavour. In general, Mel Gibson thoroughly creeps me out, mostly because he seems kinda nuts (yet cause he's a "committed Christian" nobody seems to notice). I mean he's always seemed unhinged, but now that he's found God and stuff the whole thing's been turned up a notch. And then there's the woman hating, the homophobia blah blah blah which seems to top it all off and confirm my distaste for the man (not having met him, of course). Nonetheless, I'm looking forward to... The Passion of the Christ...

In other news, this week's episode of The Simple Life was a classic, especially when Paris and Nicole changed the fast food joint's sign so as to say "1/2 Price Anal Salty wiener Burgers". That is inspired. Although what was equally funny/scary/odd was that previously the sign read "United We Stand", suggesting that patriotism knows no bounds these days. I have to say I'm growing to like these guys. They are just such ABSOLUTE brats, and while they're the kinda kids I would have resented and hated in school, I just appreciate that people are living with such little self-awareness. It's fun to watch. And I'm still yet to be convinced that Paris Hilton is not an inspired comedic genius, although lately Nicole Richie has been out-shining her, especially when she asked two guys driving a pick-up "do you guys take baths together?". Classic.

Oh man, that Simpsons in England episode was spot on, reference-laden gold. So good.



Ergh. Skithouse. Way to ruin my mood. Damn that thing BLOWS. I mean, it's nice that otherwise funny comedians can get shameful work during the year so that they don't starve to death before appearing at the Melbourne Comedy Festival for my amusement. But holy crap! Really really blows.

Just saw an icky ad for tomorrow's Today Tonight story on Australian call centre jobs being "Diverted to Delhi", with Naomi delivering the extra nugget about "how these call centres are driving Aussies crazy". Key emphasis being that it's these specific call centres that are the ones driving us crazy. Damn foreigners, stealing jobs from the Aussies who used to drive Aussies crazy. And then using these stolen jobs to invade our homes! Aaaggh! Our very way of life is under attack! It's a Today Tonight dream story; sticking up for Aussie Battlers who are losing their jobs, while also being able to keep them out of the frame for community anger at being interrupted during dinnertime to take nuisance calls, yet still being onside with said community anger. Can blame foreigners and stick up for working people, even though we hated them last week for doing the jobs they just lost. Score!

Saw Irreversible today. Monica Belucci and Vincent Cassel are REALLY COOL. I also thought that the movie was good, except for at the beginning when the camera swirled for too long and made me impatient to get to the actual story. I would recommend the film, but it would feel like I was recommending that you all go and watch someone get raped. Also, if you're a girl and you regularly walk around at night by yourself [like on your way home from work, etc], especially near main road underpasses, you might not want to watch this movie. It's kinda hard to shake the feeling that you're never far from vulnerable to a random horrific thing. Fear kinda shoots through you and freezes your spine when you think of all the simple acts of walking home you've done [and are yet to do]. Just make up your own minds, and if you wanna see it, maybe we'll chat later.

I finally saw the infamous Jessica Simpson "Is this Chicken?" moment, when while eating some "Chicken of the Sea tuna" she pondered "Is this chicken what I'm eating? It says chicken but it tastes like tuna". Hilarious. I was CACKLING. The best bit was how her ex-98 degrees hubby just looked away in disgust eg "I can't believe she just said that... uhh". I cannot wait for Newlyweds. Also, and surprisingly, The Resort rocks. In the first ep they had one of the best reality show verbal punch-ups I've ever seen, with each party accusing the other of being a stripper and looking like a tramp. That's pretty impressive antipathy for only a few days work. Congrats to Tab for getting all the guys to squeeze her fake "titties". Classy.

I've only ever read two articles about Barry's son, Oscar Humphries. The thing is, he wrote both of them himself. Ewwww. I cringe when I think about this guy. I think I really don't like him. There's something a bit yick about him. He's really annoying, especially in his own words. And, hey, it's not that I dismiss the rationale for having his personality foisted upon us. I mean, I'm as interested in the children of celebrities as the next person. I read the first article by him because I went "Huh. Barry Humphries' son. Sweet". So, I am not a calvinist work ethic type about profiles. Also, it's not the concept of this dilettente guy being able to write articles about himself and get them published across the globe that I have a problem with either. Writing about yourself is not necessarily a bad thing. I am in no position to mock it [or maybe I am and I just don't know it]. Anyway, I think I love dilettentes [they're like bums but cooler, right?]. It's just that it's a really really really bad idea to get Oscar Humphries to write the articles about himself, himself. He's a bit of a prat, see. The first thing I read about/by him was something he wrote last year about being the young man in an older woman/young man relationship. It was excrutiating. He was all about how great older women are because they are assured and know what they want blah blah blah. And how being the younger, less assured, less powerful one in the relationship made him more understanding of how his previous girls had felt in their relationships with him. Wanker. Pretty much his main point in that article was to reveal [and then repeatedly reiterate] how great the sex was. By extension, I think we were meant to infer how great he was. It was kinda lame, painful to read, and quite put me off him. Loser. And now there's another frickin article by/about him, with this one dedicated to retelling, for our benefit, his life story. Don't people write profiles for people anymore? Why is it that he's twice been able to submit these horrid personal reflection pieces? And why does he think it's a good idea to do so? Trust me, Oscar mate, it really isn't. You're crap. I hate reading what he has to say about himself. Could someone else read it and tell me if I'm being too harsh? Maybe, without having read the first "I am a sex god" article, you won't have the foundation in dislike from which I am building. But, if you're interested, the more recent article that prompted this post appears in this week's Age Sunday Life Magazine. Oscar's the bare-chested guy on its front cover. I think he's full of crap. But, here, you be the judge. Here are some of the dickhead's thoughts, on himself:

"I'm an old 22. I feel like I've lived many lives in many different places. I've loved more than most and seen more than most but that also means I've hurt more".

"... living in Beverly Hills was, even for me, an unreal experience".

"Australia is a new country and it makes me want to be a new man... This is where I was born, this is where I want to learn how to walk".

"I'm a little bit Sydney... a little bit Melbourne... a little bit LA... a little bit New York... a little bit London. I feel all of these things - on their own, they are unremarkable. But together, in me, today and always, they give colour and light to this nomad".

Yuck. There's something very bad and wrong about this guy.

Ok, I've seen the funniest music vid in the world: Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart. I cannot believe how ridiculous it is. Part Meatloaf, part Thriller, it has Tyler running through an empty mansion (of course), with sheer white curtains blowing in the wind. Outside it's stormy, with lightening flashes (of course). Randomly, she is surrounded by interpretive dancers wearing little nappy things, who move around her, probably representing passion or something. The best bit is when this boy's choir randomly appears in the house, all with glowing white eyes, and one of the singers starts to fly about the room while Tyler looks perplexed and emotional. Other odd bits include a random shot of people fencing (love is war?), lots of sweaty men, and the fact that it eventually turns out that Tyler is a new teacher about to teach the aforementioned glowing-eyed, flying choirboys, which is kinda dodgy cause there was something very sexual going on there. I know this sounds nonsensical, but that's because it is. Other totally lame but good clips include: Pat Benatar, Love is a Battlefield and Shannon Noll, What About Me?.

My mum is the QUEEN of jaffles!

Okay, a little bleary now. But I just have to share two pieces of information that I gleaned throughtout this past night. First piece is; Erin seriously knows how to throw a party [she does this really nifty thing where she invites a good number of my most beloved friends. Genius!]. Second piece is; I think that I have a doppelganger. Hear me out. Two events in recent weeks have made me think that I really might have one. Like, tonight, while at the Alfred emergency room, I quite reasonably inquired at the front desk about the status of a friend. I was courteous and patient and understanding as they told me to just wait while tests were done, etc. There was nothing weird about it. It was highly unremarkable. But later, Guy came out and told me that the nurses had asked him if he had a friend wearing a black outfit and big pink earrings. He did [it was me]. They then remarked that I had been in the previous night, doing much the same thing. When he told me this, I was like "Whaaaaat?". Hey! Nurses usually love me. What's going on here? First of all, I wasn't being freaky or anything so why was I the topic of discussion at all? And second of all, I'd never stepped foot inside the Alfred emergency room before in my life, so it was quite confronting to find out that, nevertheless, I already had a rep there. Like, all of a sudden I was some badass pesky hospital-bothering freak. I was like, "that's weird. I don't look like anyone. I've never been confused with someone else in my life". And then I remembered that that wasn't true. You see, a few weeks ago, I had been mistaken for someone else at the Big Day Out. Again, because this never happens to me, I was quite surprised about it at the time, but didn't think much more of it. But now I really reckon there's someone out there, fouling up my cred. Someone who breaks meeting arrangements with their friends at the Big Day Out so they come looking for me. Someone who makes an effort to pester overtaxed Alfred nurses only one night before I arrive there and make reasonable inquiries after a quite unexpected incident. I know this 'evidence' is pretty scanty, but you really need to consider it in the context of it never having happened before, and then happening twice in the space of a month. Hnnn? See where I'm coming from? Yeah. You'd be freaked. So, if you're out there, doppelganger, CUT IT OUT. I'm way too self-absorbed to be able to handle worrying about your behaviour too.

Back from Sydney (heat wave, so very sweaty) and I can't believe I missed the Grammys. What I did catch, however, was The Simple Life - could I have asked for anything more? I know it might be totally staged blah blah blah, and maybe Paris Hilton secretly is this comedic genius with massive IQ, but I don't care. It's just so funny! Most classic moments included 1. Paris checking herself out in the wardrobe mirror while doing runway moves and pouting 2. When they had to blur out Paris's arse cleavage 3. When the little kid plays with/tortures Tinkerbell 4. The surprising fact that Paris knew what Pasteurisation was, adding weight to my theory that she's a super intelligent comedic genius.

OHMYGOD!!!! Lucinda Williams is coming to town. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!

Tosser Statement of the Week was dumb-assly uttered by Michael Powell, FCC chairman and son of Colin, when he testified at a Congressional hearing concerned with Janet's breast appearance during the NFL halftime show. He said:

"Not only was it offending [sic, I think] to children, but it was also degrading to women".

Uh, like, how would he know? Tosser. Who the hell does he think he is? Really, really pissed me off. So much so that he managed to edge out the guy who described Jesus' crucifixion as "the central event in human history". Yikes. This Janet nonsense really is blinding people to stuff. I have just provided proof of my own affliction.

And now, for a revision. Last week I said that I'd never seen Angel look as good as he did in the first ever episode of Buffy. I now realise that I was wrong, and I am duty-bound to amend my position. Having watched the new season opener of Angel the other night, I would have to say that I prefer him chunkier and actually capable of acting. Also, his more recent preference for a black suit with black dress shirt, unbuttoned, is totally smick. Way better than that whole white shirt with a 70s/early 90s lapel bizzo [think Shannon Noll] that passed for cool on the oh so 90s Buffy, even if it was paired with a black velvet suit. By the way, Angel is a totally awesome show, and it just keeps getting better. For the past few years I think it's been kicking Buffy's arse. With the addition of Spike to the cast, [Yay!] it's gonna get even awesomer.

I just got an email that makes me want to cry.

The world can be such a cruel place. You suck, world. You see, for the past few weeks I have been fretting over the disappearance of Jon Stewart's Daily Show from my television. I thought that there might have been a hiatus or maybe that it was just the result of a non-ratings season thing, and so I decided to just pine away, feigning 'patience'. But, come on, it's SBS. They don't do non-ratings seasons. They don't do ratings. I began to get a very bad feeling in my waters. What had happened to the show? Well, the answer is, something dreadful. I emailed SBS about it, and [sob] I just received their courteous reply:

Dear Viewer,
Thank you for your email regarding The Weekly Daily Show.
Unfortunately, we sought to renew the rights but they did not accept our offer.
Thanks again

[cue uncontrollable inarticulate wailing]

Just for some background, watching the Grammys often makes me excessively angry. After last year, I decided that that is not healthy. You see, I watch the Grammys because sometimes they deliver some really cool collaborations. But I can't remember what happened last year. I think I was too consumed by rage, and all I remember is the rage. Last year's Grammys evoke for me the words "just plain heinous", and maybe that had a lot to do with the unbroken stream of crap that seemed to be getting nominated. I mean, I have this vague recollection that, in any given category, there was rarely even one deserving winner in the bunch. And the Grammys are no fun if no-one good is even in with a chance. I can recall extreme frustration, bitterness and annoyance, which all led to a pledge never to credit the terms 'Grammy-winner' or 'Grammy-nominee' with any degree of automatic respect. I was really mad. I was screaming and cursing and spitting and calling the Grammy names, and ready to dismiss the whole thing as worthless. I was livid. And that's kinda weird.

So this year, to guard against the rage, I decided to watch the show with only one small goal in mind. I told myself, "You will enjoy these Grammys as long as Train don't win anything. That will be the dealbreaker this year." Thus, with my focus and boundaries firmly negotiated, I ventured forth. Steeled now with resolve and a preset option out of the calm [I was permitted to go off like a nutcase if Train got anything] I could handle whatever else that came my way. No reckless hating here. The rage would not appear. And it didn't. [Up yours, Train! Hah!] I maintained composure throughout. They were an alright Grammys I suppose. A little flat, maybe. These are the things that I noticed:

- Richard Marx is still around. Huh. I was quite unprepared for that.

- The nominees were pretty good, considering this is the Grammys.

- Christina has great style.

- Mmmmmm. Jakob Dylan. Damn baby! Seriously, DAMN !!!

- The two best outfits of the night were both made up of the same components. This is werid, considering that these components were a sparkly yellow fabric outfit worn skin-tight and coupled with a huge fluffy wooly accessory. Anyway, the Best Outfit award is shared by the bass player from Earth, Wind & Fire [who wore a sparkly yellow skin-tight catsuit with huge fluffy wooly gumboots] and Mary J Blige [who wore a yellow sparkly skin-tight dress with an even yellower huge fluffy wooly fabulous jacket]. Nice work, people. You rule!

- Those I noticed sporting great hair were; Christina, Alicia Keys, Kelly Osbourne, and Linda Perry.

- Justin's song was one of the best performances. Nice job. Only problem with this boy is that he persists in poorly selecting his sneakers. Too bulky. Facial hair situation good at the moment, though, thank god.

- Robert Randolph and the Family Band and George Clinton and that whole onstage funk party was also really cool.

- Ellen Degeneres needs to wear her suits tighter.

- Yoko RULES! [Paul still a cunt]

- Black Eyed Peas chick gets the Super-Ace Black Leg-warmers and Heels Combo award.

- By the way, what does Justin actually do in that song?

- Norah Jones should wear her hair up more often. Nice bangs.

- Beyoncé's voice is ace, but....Haaaaaah hahaaaaaaaaaa!!!! A dove!! Haaaahaahah!

- I just really love Ozzy. Something about him makes my heart fill with tender feelings.

- Sarah McLaughlin looked like Gloria Estefan [no judgment. It's just not how I remembered her].

- And, last but not least, in Oukast's able hands, even a school marching band doing The Robot is cool.



Phew. Grammys is done. Now I think I'll be able to handle next year as long as Evanescence don't win anything. Hmmm. I let you off easy this year, Grammys.

Does anybody else enjoy that horrific Five Years From Now song by Mercury 4 purely because the way the line is sung makes it sound like they're saying "Will I be your mammary?" Just wondering.

Have just got home from work to find The Darkness doing an utterly gold job of guest-programming Rage [which, for those unfamiliar, is a music video program in Australia. Oooh, look at me. One piece of Spanish praise and I make the paradigm shift to global. Tickets much?]. The boys were seriously picking some of my Rage back-catalogue faves. I mean, check this out:
Boney M's Rasputin [you know, "Ra-ra Rasputin"]
The Carpenters' Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft [a GREAT song, and totally strange coming from Karen and bro]
Van Halen's Panama [hellooo! It features onstage use of a HAIR-DRIER!]
Kate Bush's Babooshka [an avowedly new addition to my list of back-catalogue faves. Leah, you were so right about how awesome this clip is. I particularly like her outfit during the chorus, when she's got the gold head-dress on and the gold striped high-cut bikini and the dagger strapped to her thigh, so she looks like a glam go-go pirate. Amazing!]

All that was needed to make it a perfect Rage evening was if they had played that Cameo song that I love [but whose title I can't remember], and also Rod Stewart's Hot Legs. Yeah! That would have been sweeeeet. Warrant's Cherry Pie was also a notable omission, which, however, was thankfully rectified later by the people who programmed the rest of Rage to match the theme set by the Darkness [leading to helpings of Poison, more Van Halen, Spinal Tap, etc]. Man, these things make me so damn happy. I love those Darkness boys even more now. To top off the night, they actually chose and introduced one of their own clips. Love them! The clip was Growing on Me which is a worthy peer to all the excellence that preceded it, although it's tough to decide whether it, or I Believe in a Thing Called Love, is their best clip. Hmmmm. Tough, very tough. Anyway, those boys rule.
Give me a D! Give me an ARKNESS!
Damn straight.

I have just been watching a DVD of The Awful Truth series, and I was pleasantly surprised to find how well it still stands up. I think Michael Moore did some of his best work on this show.

Amy, you were right about this return of Buffy thing. It's gonna be so great watching them all from the beginning and being reminded of who did what to who, etc. Things I noticed from the first episode were (1) While the looks and dress sense of everyone else in the series will improve over time, I don't think I've ever seen an episode, other than this first one, where Angel and Xander looked hotter. Xander had a really good shirt on, and a lovely sweet young face, and Angel was wearing a black velvet suit. Mmmm. However, he did seem rather too suave and playful for someone consumed by irreconcilable guilt every moment of every day. Whatever, it's all downhill lookswise for those guys from here on in. (2) Buffy really looks her best the blonder she is. These early darker tresses just ain't cutting it, and I don't think her fashion is going to get good until the final two seasons. (3) As if Darla would be afraid of Buffy! Come on! As IF !!! (4) Who knew the gang started out with Willow, Xander and a guy called Jesse? I had completely forgotten about this longtime childhood friend of theirs [who will no doubt be killed off next week]. Hmmmm, it's gonna be fun watching the details emerge out of the fog of early Buffy memory. I am, however, dreading the onslaught of hairclips.

Each Wednesday night at 8.30pm on SBS there is an in-depth news/affairs program called Dateline. It RULES!

Yeah, it always comes across as lame when TV interview people try to capture public disapproval. The worst, of course, is Naomi Robson who has a fondness for beginning stories in the following manner: "To be frank, the following paedophile/shonky builder is an absolute creep, and he deserves to be in jail". She really is quite a tough nut, which makes it even funnier when she finishes each show with "I'm Naomi Robson, DO take care, and have a GREAT evening, and I'll see you soon!". Warm and fuzzy. Then they cut away and show her legs beneath the specially-designed leg-revealing desk that appeared a few years ago. Meanwhile, Darren Hinch is a tosser. Confirmed. "All that history owes the dead is the truth" he says. I say, stop using overblown self-important carp(?) to justify your own lack of judgement.

It's not hilarious anymore. All the tut-tutting that is coming in response to Janet's boob has taken all the passing fun out and turned the thing mega-annoying and given it 'lasting consequences'. Pontificators are damn creeps. So much lame-arsing abounds. There's all this very strong language about how "stupid and obnoxious" the stunt was, and "I don't consider myself conservative but enough already" for the sake of the kids, etc. Grrrr. Calm down, people! Who cares what this might mean for society. As if it means anything at all! Jesus! What the fuck could it possibly have to do with your world-view? It's just a frickin boob. It was just a frickin moment. It doesn't have anything to do with you! What is with the unrestrained heaping of scorn!!? Ergh. The Worst Response of the Day award goes to Matt Lauer. He finished up an interview with some magazine lady about the 'implications' of the boob-reveal by shaking his head and saying, [in a disapproving, "I give up", tone],
"Just think. 40 years ago we were shocked by the Beatles' haircuts. Now this."
Pffffffff. The lost fucking innocence of yesteryear.

This whole Janet Jackson breast-exposure thing is hilarious. Mostly because of the crazy outpouring of network apologising. Never again will MTV organise the mid-show entertainment says CBS! Never again! Meanwhile, JT (trouser snake) takes the piss by blaming the incident on a "wardrobe malfunction". Although, my personal opinion is that the whole thing was deliberate. If anyone wants to look at the still (which is totally PG), her nipple isn't actually exposed. Considering that numerous celebs eg Lil'Kim have pioneered the acceptable exposure of breasts, with nipples tastefully covered up, the whole thing seems quite tame. If it wasn't intentional, I'm then very impressed that Janet managed to carry on robotically while replacing the missing costume piece. In any case, the fact that we all now remember that Janet Jackson exists, and has a new album out in weeks, means that the whole thing has been a success. Yay!

On Triple J at the moment there's a current affairs show called Hack, or something, hosted by Steve Cannane from 5.30pm til 6pm each weeknight. I've caught it a few times and it's really interesting. Tops.

Check out Paula Abdul's website, and read about her new range of jewelry called "Innergy", "which represents the "inner energy" it takes to succeed". "The front of the circle is engraved with "When you wish upon a Star..." On the reverse [it says] "You just might become one." Click at the bottom of the page for "order placement and fulfillment".