Thursday of Infamy.

Let us take a moment to consider the 78 people who should be going to bed tonight feeling more than usually ashamed of themselves. Truly, you are just bad people.



I mean it.




Anyway, to make it all better, (well, not all) I'm going to watch Episode 9, Season 3 of Deadwood. Right. This. Instant. Because I need some delight in my life. And some Brian from Queer As Folk being Wyatt Earp. And some whores and politics, obviously.

Metallic Falcons, Desert Doughnuts

I bought this album last night. I listened to it today. I love it.

At the moment, Airships, Snakes and Tea, and Silent Night are the songs for me.

A keeper.

MIFFing In Action.

Apologies, I have been busy. And although my 'hectic' schedule has only been partially related to attending films at MIFF, let's just blame it for the entire blog absence thing, if only because the working/ 3CR-ing/ Deadwood-ing/ discovering I am still at uni and so actually have to attend (!), etc, are all factors not worth bothering about because they simply aren't as punny.

So, MIFF.


Sticky Carpet, Friday 28 July, 9:15pm, ACMI


Um, well. It was okay. It kind of dragged a bit, to be honest. But it was a freaky surprise to see 3CR featured as if it was on a par with RRR and PBS, which I think will please the music show programmers, who really are underpromoted at the station (a condition which might change soon, I think, as one of the people on the Promotions Sub-Committee with me has PLANS. Not mwhaw haw haw plans. Just "we're under-utilising a great resource" plans). So anyway, it was fun to watch and annoy my brother by jabbing him with my elbow every time I a) saw someone I knew/recognised or b) felt the need to tell him things like "Pssst, that's Studio 3". Such information was greeted by him with an exasperated shake of the head, a response I duly ignored so that I could continue illuminating his experience of the film with various 'insider' gems like, "Yep. See that mural on the wall behind him? Tom painted that. Oooh, I sat in that chair just this afternoon. And look, look! They've spelled Iain's name wrong. Isn't this just fascinating for you?". Glares.



Al Franken: God Spoke, Sunday 30 July, 7:05pm, Greater Union


Now, I'm a person who likes my Al Franken. I think he's nice. However, this film has kind of radicalised* my like for him, so I feel it my duty to inform you that, having seen this film, I WILL NOW NOT HEAR A WORD AGAINST AL FRANKEN. DO YOU HEAR ME? NOT ONE WORD CRITICISING AL FRANKEN WILL FLY WITH ME FROM THIS POINT ON. IF I EVER HEAR YOU MAKE ONE DISPARAGING REMARK ABOUT AL FRANKEN, WE ARE OVER. OVER! NOW, I WON'T END YOU OR ANYTHING. BUT WE WILL BE FINISHED AS FAR AS CIVILITY GOES. BECAUSE THE MAN IS THOROUGHLY RESPECTABLE AND DECENT AND HE WADES THROUGH SCUM ON OUR BEHALF. I am not kidding. He is a deeply lovely man. And the people he has to counter are despicable and low. Yes, I know this isn't groundbreaking news about Anne Coulter/Bill O'Reilly etc, but YIKES! Those douches are OBSCENE AND SILLY. IN A NASTY WAY. QUITE SIMPLY, THEY FOUL UP LIFE.

* However, not radicalised to the extent that I can't appreciate the fact that the hippie couple near us who insisted on doing the Nazi salute every time George W came on screen weren't, shall we say, COMPLETE. DOUCHES.


The Wind That Shakes The Barley, Sunday 30 July, 9:10pm, Regent Theatre


This was excellent. Really. It's just plain good. But it kind of made me want to disown one of my Irish great-grandfathers - the one who was working for the British oppressors, AGAINST HIS OWN PEOPLE, as a policeman. "Too right you got fire-bombed out of town!", says I with idiotic Cillian-inspired fervour, shaking fists. (Oh god I am so sorry for saying that, forefather of mine. I didn't mean it. And I am sure it was much more complicated for you than that. Just trying to feed your family and keep the public order, probably. Weren't you? I'm so sorry. I'm sure seeing your children cower under the kitchen table was horrendous for you, and I shouldn't be glib about it. And I wouldn't be alive if you hadn't pissed off your fellow countrymen and emigrated in fear of your life. I really am grateful for that. Again, so sorry for saying all that "too right" stuff. It's just that the film is quite powerful, you see... Sorry again) - and instead want to talk quite loudly about my other Irish great-grandfather, who died out in the field with the IRA, FIGHTING AGAINST THE OPPRESSORS and who will now be referred to as Cillian Murphy. Anyway, the film was actually more complex than my reaction is making it seem. It's very tense and conflicting, and you feel yourself saying to the characters, "You are a good person. Please, don't do anything you will be ashamed of... Oh." But you still know who's really really good. Because they die.


Beyond Beats And Rhymes: A Hip-Hop Head Weighs In On Manhood In Hip-Hop Culture, Monday 31 July, 7pm, Greater Union


This felt to me like a bit of a misfire, but it was worth seeing because of some of the instances that were captured. For example: Busta Rhymes, shame on you. But anyway, the concept was good, just poorly executed. Indeed, I think there are great riches to be found in people taking issue with stuff they LOVE when the stuff they LOVE is problematised by things like misogyny and homophobia. It's like when Tim says, "Man that Jamaican Dancehall's catchy. Wait, did he just say Stomp on the fag's head? OH DAMN. BUT IT'S JUST SO CATCHY!" (We were at Catherine's 21st birthday party. The quote may not be verbatim.) Anyway, my point is, it's a good subject, and something we all experience, I think. Because we really do love stuff. And that pleasure sometimes makes it very difficult to quarantine ourselves from being implicated in the stuff within the stuff we love that we really don't love. If you get my meaning. So yes, a rich subject. Pity then, that the guy at the helm of this film didn't quite have the chops for it, cultural-analysis wise. Seriously, if the premise of the film is "Homophobia is bad and misogyny is bad and gun culture is bad, (agreed) and yet it is present in a lot of popular hip-hop music", but then the film isn't able to give a good account of why is this so?, then the film fails. The dude's intervention was brimming with the language of cultural analysis, but lacked the precision necessary for meaningful conclusions or thoughtful clarifications. Instead, there was a tendency to draw conclusions without serious attention to context. Sure, Spring Bling is freaky and disturbing, but I wouldn't attempt to draw conclusions from it that can apply to the whole hip-hop culture and the messages that young people are receiving from it, without some qualifications. Sure, the behaviour on display may hint at wider attitudes, but you can only make that argument with integrity if you also acknowledge that the conditions of Spring Break-associated freakfests do heighten the freakiness on display. Also, I felt that the film's simplistic equalisation of all the 'hyper-masculine images that bombard us', was flawed. I don't think you can say that Man With Gun = Man With Gun, in terms of the impact it will have on da yoof. Tony Soprano with a gun in the context of a show like The Sopranos which explores many levels of morality and culpability, is not the same as a cowboy with a gun in an ugly old vengeance Western. You just can't lump them in together in a montage and say, "No wonder. Look at this celebration of violence". It's sloppy. It's Tipper Gore sloppy. For me, the thinking was muddled even to the point where the film ended up seeming to dust off a binary opposition in which rap is either conscientious or fun and daring and a bit (or very) wrong. I will admit that the film managed to kind of point to a valuable criticism, namely that the hip-hop that had begun as fun and daring and a bit wrong (ie. gangsta rap) had become the mainstream moneymaker and been leached of its original impetus, co-opted by Whitey and corrupted by market dominance, ending up a ridiculous parody running with a bad crowd. And I think it's perfectly fine to challenge mindless pap and to be concerned about its popularity and how it may contribute to the normalisation of hateful attitudes. Also, I think it's a good argument to say that the kind of mindlessness the film-maker took exception to does flourish in the absence of a sound and principled critique/considered challenge/presentation of alternatives. However, although those things do exist and I would have thought that one of the aims of the documentary was to disseminate them more widely, and to place them right in front of the people making hip-hop mistakes so these considerations are present for them (us) as reference points, they are precisely what was missing from this deal. Hmmm, maybe not missing, just lost.


Darkon, Tuesday 1 August, 3pm, ACMI


THIS WAS JUST FANTASTIC. A DELIGHT! The tone was finely judged, and by that I mean, ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. And by that I mean, HILARIOUS. BUT NOT CRUEL.


Flanders, Saturday 5 August, 7pm, Regent Theatre


See the image above? That was a frequent and almost pavlovian response, but without a discernible trigger. Indeed, when he climbed on top of her once again in the film's final scene, people in the audience actually laughed. Because it had become silly, and we had all long ceased to care a jot.


Bubble, Saturday 5 August, 9pm, Capitol Theatre


This film won't shake your foundations, but it's well made. A simple well-observed story, with an added point of interest in that it's weird to watch dolls being produced in their separate dismembered parts.


The Betrayal, Monday 7 August, 3pm, Forum Theatre


The above image I found for this film is black+white. But the film is not shot in black+white, just so you know. And if I was cheap-minded and fatiguing, I would say "No, this film is most definitely not black and white, haw haw haw (in more ways than one, eh! IF YOU GET MY DRIFT! THEMATICALLY). Because, you see, the story of the film is about a questioning of the loyalty (or, a becoming suspicious of the loyalty) of some Algerian conscripts in the French army in occupied Algeria in 1960. But, oh ho! Where is the true trahison, eh? Isn't it really on the French side, with the allegiance it asks of these Algerian men placing them in a terribly precarious position, not for their own sake but for the sake of France's interests, while to France they are disposable, 'not really French' and copping disrespect from all sides? THIS FILM IS VERY FUCKING GOOD.


Mutual Appreciation, Monday 7 August, 5pm, Regent Theatre


I really enjoyed this. It's just sweet and dithering and there's a gentleness and you just like these people. If I told you it was about some twenty-something New York indie kids you'd probably get all huffy and dismissive and assume it was pretentious wank. But you'd be wrong.



That brings us up to date with MIFF so far. I've still a few things to go on my Mini Pass, namely, Unrequited Love, Global Haywire, October 17 1961, and This Film Is Not Yet Rated. You will no doubt hear about them once I've seen them.


There is one more thing of note that I must mention. And that is, THE STROKES. Who I saw last night at Festival Hall. And it was the closest I've ever been to them ("them" being Julian Casablancas). I would estimate about 5 metres. And this pleased me. It kind of freaked my brother out, though. Afterwards he kept saying, "I know this sounds strange, because we've seen them before. But I mean, they were right there. Like, right there. As if they're people." He hasn't quite got over it. If he does manage to move on from that thought, it's usually to talk about how much people suck, because we had some doozies around us. But he wasn't the one being humped from behind all night, so I don't know what he's complaining about. Nah, it was of no great consequence. And once I'd ascertained that there was really nothing negatively aggressive about the motivations of the girl behind me, pummeling me with her whole body, grabbing on my shoulders and arms to steady herself every once in a while, ie. her complete lack of boundaries, poor duffer, I just devoted myself to staring at Julian Casablancas, enjoying myself, protecting the woman in front of me from a tranference of the onslaught, and making sure my legs didn't give out when the excitable child would knock against the back of my knees.

Fun fact: Julian Casablancas makes me go a bit silly in the head. For example, this morning, the morning after the concert, while I was preparing myself for the day, I became quite taken with the idea that it was not completely outside the realms of possibility that Casablancas would feel like dropping in to 3CR in the afternoon, when I would be there having a meeting. I mean, he's in town, I said to myself. What's so crazy about thinking he might take it upon himself to 'check out the community radio scene' and what-not? So I took extra care in picking out my outfit, and almost made myself late for my lecture. Do you see? I dressed for Casablancas. It was INSANE. For many reasons, I grant you. But the one that strikes me now is that, I dressed for Casablancas on the Monday, when the possibility of being in his presence was remote, but not on the Sunday night, when I was going to see him play a gig, ie, when being in his presence was beyond doubt. Wow. I have issues. But as I said, Julian Casablancas makes me go a bit silly in the head. It is therefore much more fitting, and no doubt more enjoyable for him and his ilk, that people more charming and hilarious than myself are the ones with the real stories to tell.

Giddy.

People, an awesome thing has happened. Truly, it is so awesome that I very nearly didn't even know it was happening. Luckily, the Green Guide was just read out to me, and so I have GOOD NEWS.

Do you remember back in 2004 of course you do when I was so distraught about the disappearance of Jon Stewart's show from SBS that I was actually moved to send them a quailing desperate and needy email which, in summary, went, "Hey guys, you don't know me but, um, WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHERE IS JON STEWART? PLEASE PLEASE DON'T TELL ME IT'S OVER...! SOB SOB SOB" and they replied "Er, sorry crazy lady. It is out of our hands..." Hmmm? Do you remember that? DO YOU?

Well chill the fuck out, because he's back. TONIGHT. At 10pm. And it is going to be a BOFFO SMASH.

A Sorry Excuse For A Song.

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

Things I Underlined In A Book.

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

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

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


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

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

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

I almost spewed from the hilarity.


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


It is full of gems like that.

No Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

Which is a shame.

This is a low.

And a first.

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

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

Character. Is. Everything.

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

“I stand before you a married man.”

OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.

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

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

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

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


OTHER THINGS.

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

Kimya Dawson, Remember That I Love You

Johnny Cash, American V: A Hundred Highways *


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



UPDATE

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

Forgot to mention Fiery Furnaces.

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

Some things:

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

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

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

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

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

Nods approvingly.

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

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

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

Good things.

Symposiasts Period Romance

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

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

There was a knock on the door…"

And now, it continues.


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

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

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

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

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

“Housed and fed me! –“

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

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

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

“What business is that?”

“Whores of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re new,” she said.

“I am,” Fermina replied shyly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you would do for one that you love.

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

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

WEAK.

Drawing Restraint 9

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

Supreme Court RULES.

Yippee! And they weren't cunty about it!

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

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

Well, maybe they were a bit cunty:

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

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

Tristram Shandy : A Cock & Bull Story.

YES.

Bloggers On The Radio.

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

The Sounds Of Children Playing.

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

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

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

Women on the Line Trivia Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is another song, Don't Touch It:

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

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

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