Saturday night dilemma

7.50pm: You have the house to yourself, an improbably comfortable couch, a guilty pleasure on DVD and the chocolate is primed. You cannot open your bottle of wine.

Overheard at a West Perth Cafe

Suit 1 to Suit 2: This is probably in the category of Things You Didn't Want to Know but (a woman's first and second name) gets really bad period pain

A Question

What the fuck have I been buying from Amazon.com that fucking One Tree Hill makes it onto my 'recommended' list? I mean yes it's a work of comic genius but I thought that was supposed to be my little secret...

Thoughts I had while watching The Howard Years

9.25pm: You fucking shit fuck cunt.

My laptop: a love story

The first computer I ever touched was an Amiga 500 that my Dad brought home one day in a box. Turned on this grey square monstrosity offered users an ultra low-fi graphic of a cartoon hand clutching a three-and-a-half floppy against a screen so white it could burn retinas. When the floppy was inserted the machine chug chugged in thanks and then calmly took approximately the same time to load as it would have taken a user to earn a degree in computer science and build a faster computer.

Playing the game of the moment - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles since you asked - required players to have not only possession of the three floppies on which the game was stored but the will to change discs literally EVERY TWO MINUTES. On screen the inch-high Leonardo or Donatello gave the impression of suffering from digital narcolepsy – unable to negotiate more than a single obstacle before exhaustion overcame him and the direction INSERT DISC TWO helpfully appeared above his bowed head.

I thought it was fucking amazing.

Every day after school I'd come home with but one thought in my head: how to get to Level Three. Those were indeed halcyon days and twenty plus years on I have nothing but fond memories of the bulky monitor and the CPU that sounded like a jet engine taking off. Twice. Even the keyboard, with its smattering of crumbs from biscuits ill-advised consumed mid game, or (just once Dad) sticky cordial dripped onto keys. I can still recall the joy of finishing Bubble Bobble with my brother, the mammoth Space Quest sessions that ultimately required the entire family's input, playing the shameless unapologetic Mario Brother rip-off The Great Giana Sisters the day I found out my cat had been run over in our neighbour's driveway. Good times.


And while my family and, more recently myself, have gone through a few different computers in the intervening years there has never been a machine to touch my heart with quite the same degree of joy as the Amiga 500. Until this weekend, obviously.

Do you remember that scene from Y Tu Mama Tambien? (And if you tell me that movie is soft porn I will cut you). Do you remember the first time you saw Gael Garcia Bernal's beautiful face and body in that movie? All pouty lips, tea coloured skin and a certain languid shrimpiness that made the too-big beauty of his face palatable? Of course you do - that's exactly when you and I fell madly in love.

That pang of frustrated longing is pretty much how I felt when I spied my new laptop this weekend. How embarassing. I don't tend to think I'm terribly acquisitive. Yes I have a mild book buying problem and, yes, in truth, I may own several more trashy DVD box sets than are STRICTLY necessary but when it comes to the big expensive shit I can't really be bothered. Sure I love my car but it is almost as old as I am and, in the words of a dear friend this week, "it's looking a bit shitty" these days. Similarly my phone was chosen by virtue of being the cheapest model in the shop, while my clothes are... well I mean I LIKE wearing and buying clothes but to suggest that any item of clothing in my wardrobe costs more than my prized 1930s Great Gatsby edition would be a lie.

But the laptop... I couldn't resist. Much like Gael Garcia Bernal the moment I saw it I wanted it. Desperately. It's not arguably necessary: I have a laptop at home, it's just that it no longer closes and can therefore not be said to be portable in any conventional sense of the word. Even so a new model still seemed an extravagance. And yet... fuck it. I love it. It is a thing of beauty and it fits in my satchel - my satchel! And HONESTLY if you had a pint sized Gael Garcia Bernal you could pop in your bag and pull out when desired wouldn't you be all over that? Damn straight.

Bad ways to start a day:

* With the realisation one of your eyes is nearly swollen shut for reasons I will not go into.
* With the sweet sounds of what sounds like a dump truck reversing through several piles of kindling drifting in through the window.
* With the too-late recollection you have left your delicious pre-prepared lunch at home in the fridge.

To eat you

The 2 most disturbing things about having an IT dude remotely access my PC yesterday:

1. The bit where I realised I'd stored a bunch of photos on my desktop with incriminating names like "ho-yay", "crumpet" and "office romance".
2. Pretending not to hear the moaning (in-pain moaning, not the other kind) that went on for about 30-40 seconds wherever the hell he was.

New Favourite Things...

* Holidays. The past week and a half has been a dream.
* Seeing lovely friends I have missed in past week and a half.
* Shopping for portable netbook. This fucker is so, so cute.
* Frasier. You know when you run into an old boyfriend you were a bit so-so about and he looks much hotter than you remember? That's this.
* My big sis' unborn child. I swear this isn't cluckiness but I wish the little shit would hurry up and be born already.
* Antonia Quirke's heavily autobiographical novel Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers. Maybe it was the pseudoephidrene but I read this yesterday and it was a bloody delight.
*Being tended to while sick by my lovely boyfriend despite his own hideous cycling-induced injuries. I am a bad, bad patient.

Meanwhile I'm Hating...

* Going back to work after holidays. Blerg.
* Being sick but unable (for a variety of reasons) to miss work.
* The new Brideshead Revisited Movie. Crushing disappointment.
* The fact that CERTAIN people who shall remain nameless have become awfully slack bloggers - I miss them.
* Being sick. It deserves two spots because it sucks all kinds of balls.

A fair point

"And the terrible irony in Robert Downey Junior being made an emblem of self-destructiveness... is that he, the scapegoat, cannot be made to look like a cautionary tale. He looks like a walking advertisement for drugs. Everyone knows that in the last analysis most drugs are just poison. But there should be a special dispensation for anyone who's really good on them. You'd have to go to court, stoned, and prove that you were actually brilliant company. If you couldn't, you'd go to jail, like Richard Dreyfuss. But if you could you'd get a renewable five-year licence and we'd be allowed to hang out with you, like Hazlitt around Coleridge."
(Madame Depardieu and the Beautiful Strangers, Antonia Quirke)

And more

This article from the New Yorker is a long fucker but it's fascinating if you're still on a US election high and want a bit of back room shenanigans...

"Last June, Joel Benenson, who was Barack Obama’s top pollster during his presidential run, reported on the state of the campaign. His conclusions, summed up in a sixty-slide PowerPoint presentation, were revealed to a small group, including David Axelrod, Obama’s chief strategist, and several media consultants, and, as it turned out, some of this research helped guide the campaign through the general election. The primaries were over, Hillary Clinton had conceded, and Obama had begun planning for a race against Senator John McCain."

You can read the rest here.

I've been trying to think of a witty title for ten minutes... I've got nuthin'

I've been biting my tongue a bit lately. Thought I'd see what that was like. Not all the time, obviously. I wasn't biting it when someone almost related to me suggested Kevin Rudd was responsible for ruining the economy (dear sir, a terrifying thought: I now know more about the economy than you) or to a very dear friend who told me the other day he's now "anti abortion" (dude, nobody's exactly pro-abortion but you're two steps away from voting for Sarah Palin in 2012). But on another matter I have remained quiet. Ish.

Obama. Or at least a very specific subject relating to Obama.

And now that he's, you know, IN and everything and we can all breathe a massive sigh of relief-slash-start-excavating-any-long-lost-almost-American ancestory I feel I can finally say it. Because he's um kinda hot. Isn't he? And yet it's not the sort of thing I've felt I can bring up in recent weeks when someone much smarter than I is banging on about Obama's policy on awfully serious matters. One feels compelled, even, to come up with SOME kind of contribution that isn't along the lines of "Yeah sure but have you ever had that dream where you just dive into the depths of his eyes?" Trust me: it doesn't play as well to your highbrow mates as you might suppose.

But now things have moved on. I've made it through the election by faking a handful of wanky remarks I barely understood, the dreamed-for has happened and he's in - I can come out and say it. Because he's a dreamboat. Possibly even the dreamiest dreambot to ever step into the role of US head of State. Maybe? I don't know - shall we reflect?

I mean starting with the lowball of Bush? You've have to scoop out your eyes first. And your brain.

Clinton? Yeah, yeah I hear he's a hit with the post-menopausal crowd but... meh.

The other Bush? I thought he was dead. BEFORE he was elected, I mean.

Freakin' Reagan??? Sure he'd be able to forget it in a flash but for you you? The memory of those wrinkly jowls wobbling towards your pink pits (ew, I'm sorry) would linger forever.

Back a bit further (and skipping a few so as to skim over my frankly sub par knowledge of American history - don't blame me, blame my delicious uni history teacher who seduced and distracted me with his gravelly tones) the obvious parallel is JFK. Also charismatic. Also with a stylish and semi banging wife. And I know he was supposed to be hot and all and maybe if it's good enough for Marilyn Monroe I shouldn't complain but... really? That guy? What with the giant hair and the jaw and everything he kinda looks like Family Guy's piss-take of an in-bred writer for the New Yorker. Times two.

Back a bit further still and, yes, while you might go there with FDR it'd only be a)pity shag because of, um, you know, the legs and all and b)because he was FUCKING AWESOME.

And so we circle back to Obama. Who is decidedly tasty. But... too tasty? Is it possible to be just a little too dreamy to have sensible chats in the white house, strut about like you're on West Wing and generally resist the temptation to take off your shirt?

I think not. Because while the uber hot should be, frankly, avoided when it comes to relationships (here's a tip: look for porn. If you find none he gets his kicks wanking into the mirror... flee and don't go back for your bag) when it comes to politicians a little tasty on the side can't be a bad thing. Because if Australian history has taught us anything it's that electing a douchebag toe-rag who wouldn't look out of place in a line-up of massively eyebrowed paedos is never a good idea. The mere knowledge that absolutely nobody was listening to John Howard rag on refugees/bloody gays/insert minority here and wondering what his lips looked like when he said the word "fuck", gave the fucker strength to continue his rule for five hundred million years. Or did it just seem that way?

Paul Keating on the other hand? Arguably the best Prime Minister we've ever had. At least in my lifetime. And come on, I mean, hé's got to be 60 if he's a day now and you'd STILL go there. Me too. Case closed.

So...

... what the fuck?

O-ba-ma

I'm off in Melbourne at the moment but a friend sent me an email the other day, while the votes for the US election were filtering in and my heart was in my mouth. "You up for history?" my friend, who is half American, asked me via email. And that really sums it up - what a freaking moment in history we've just had.

I know I'm preaching to the converted but Jesus what a rush. My only regret is (weirdly) that I wasn't at work for the moment the vote was decided: I've been in desperate need of a holiday and I'm loving it but it would have been a rush. I haven't had this sort of joy since Rudd romped it home for Australia. Fricking amazing.

Meanwhile Melbourne is awesome: like London had sex with Australia and this was the result. If I could merely transplant my friends and family here I would never leave.

Until then...

So I'm off to Melbourne for the week. Being the dorkus malorkus I am, I may do some on-the-road blogging but then again I may not. If Obama doesn't win they can fish my body out of, um, I don't know a pint somewhere. I shall miss you.

In the meantime I can do no better than point you in the direction of my favourite distractables. If you haven't been to Go Fug Yourself you haven't lived. If you're not into making fun of silly chicks in dopey outfits (come on!) Stuff White People Like is just about funny enough to make you feel vaguely superior to everyone who doesn't read it, while I Watch Stuff is like film porn. Um without the, you know, titties. And if I haven't recommended Television Without Pity to you before now then are we even friends? Or if you want to get even vaguely cerebral head to the guardian and check out CHarlie Brooker. And know that by "cerebral" I mean "scatalogical".

?

Observer had the idea first but I love a good poll - takes me back to those quiz pages in Dolly where you'd always lie like a fiend just to get the right score. So cast your eyes to the right and cast your (anonymous) vote.

Oh, Sa-rah...

I know it's mean to kick a racist, thick-as-shit redneck when she's down but for anyone who hasn't heard this, two Canadian comedians phoned Sarah Palin pretending to be French President Nicolas Sarkozy and... got away with it.

Oh. How. Embarassing.

Dear Melbournites, a self serving love letter:

Whenever I mention the fact that I've never been to Melbourne before people invariably have the same reaction. "Ohmigod but you'll LOVE IT" they say, unless they are over the age of about 35 in which case you can omit the "ohmigod".

To which I reply with a guilty smile "I know, I've always... meant to go." And I have - I've just never got around to it.

So imagine my excitement at the fact that I leave for my first ever Melbourne trip in about... um 36 hours. Ish. I think. Maybe a bit... more? Less? Okay, on Wednesday. I leave on Wednesday.

The pathetic bit is that I have no idea what I want to do over there. Oh okay I know I want to hang out with my preggers sister and get boozed in front of her just to make her jealous. I know I want to poke around cute wee shops and sup at delicious drinks in delightful bars and cafes. But... specific locations? I don't know. My mind goes blank. I just don't KNOW Melbourne. At all.

That's where you come in readers because, clearly, if you read this blog even semi regularly you're My Kind of People as well as being the kind of people who have a leetle bit too much spare time on their hands (hey, no offence: me too).

So to those who have dabbled in what Melbourne have to offer and lived to tell the tale and make me feel guilty for not having been before, please, tell me: what should I do?

More semantics

What I said: Nothing.

What I meant: I am really pissed and upset and if you don't recognise in my silence that I am pissed and upset I will only get MORE pissed and upset.