An Open Letter to my Next Door Neighbours:

Hi, how’re you going? We haven’t really met officially have we?

I’m sorry I haven’t been more neighbourly - I’m not really the sort to chat on the doorstep or, you know, answer the door to knocking. I like my own space and, in return, I’m happy to give you yours.

But. We. Have. To. Talk. About. The. Power. Ballads.

More specifically we have to talk about the power ballads you have been playing lately. And loudly. I don’t know what they are called, I don’t know who they are by but I recognise them and I want to kill myself every time I come home to hear them reverberating through our shared wall.

Why are you doing this to me? Is this about last weekend? I’m sorry - I know, in hindsight, that having a piano in my house was a dangerous move when I'm all-too-likely to come home late and in the mood for The Entertainer and, yes, not everyone enjoys the musical stylings of Run DMC as much as I do but this is taking things too far.

I am already a relatively empowered woman. I do not need this in my life. I don’t know anything about you but I’m sure you don’t need this in your life. Nobody needs this in their life.

Please get some taste or at least a pair of good headphones.

I have a high-speed internet connection and I’m not afraid to download some hardcore pornography and play it… loudly.

Yours Faithfully.

Sniff, so much wasted potential

Thanks Linds for the tip - check out Pete Doherty as a young 18 year old queusing up to buy an Oasis album. Sure he's a bit of a cocky git but I'll take this over facial sores any day.

Quotable Quotes: E.M Forster

“‘You care for me a little bit, I do think,’ he admitted, ‘but I can’t hang all my life on a little bit. You don’t. You hang yours on Anne. You don’t worry whether your relation with her is platonic or not, you only know that it’s big enough to hang a life on.‘I was yours once till death if you cared to keep me, but I’m someone else’s now - I can’t hang about whining for ever - and he’s mine in a way that shocks you, but why don’t you stop being shocked and attend to your own happiess?’” (Maurice, E.M Forster)

I'd pay to see Goody Daniel with the devil...

Some time last year I was walking into a movie cinema about to see the lovely film Goodnight and Good luck. I had dragged a friend to the movie at late notice and I was giving her a brief run down on the movie and what to expect.

I was in full angry-little-L-liberal rant mode, giving what I thought was a searing indictment of McCarthyism and how little times had changed when she surprised ten types of crap out of me by asking me what McCarthyism was. I… didn’t know what to say. I was quite genuinely shocked that anyone could not have heard the term (sorry anonymous blog-reading friend whose name I will never reveal!) but, as it turned out, she wasn’t alone. A quick survey revealed several people in my immediate social circle who had never heard of Joseph McCarthy or what he represented and it’s a real shame.

This isn’t intellectual smugness speaking but it’s a real, real shame if people today don’t know about our reasonably immediate past. The idea that those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it a cliche but a good one. There are huge lessons to be learned from history and I really don’t feel that we as a society have learned very much at all. I’m not exactly breaking new ground in suggesting there has been more than a whiff of McCarthyism breezing through the western world in the past few years where people are accused of being unAustralian or unpatriotic for burning an Australian flag, not supporting a steady erosion of individual rights or wearing a burqa.

Anyway, all this is a long way of saying I’m looking forward to seeing The Crucible tonight in a big way. Obviously I’ve yet to lay my eyes on this particular production but, all things going well, anyone who hasn’t read the play or seen the movie would do well to make their way to the Playhouse for a play that is, tragically, just about as relevant today as it was 55 years ago.

Just as tragically this version will, I hear, not star Daniel Day Lewis. Curses!

UPDATE: It was good and well worth seeing. I agree with some of Dan’s comments boltongray.blogspot.com and I wasn’t blown away with this production per se (though I thought the set design was great) but the material is so good it’s a completely gripping experience.

Elsewhere...

• Ned Kelly's on the run again, apparently. Or, should I clarify, his bones are.
• Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson should piss me off by describing a car as "a bit ginger beer" (read: queer) but I just throw up my hands and say "Oh, Jeremy, you're the living end".
• Until now former US president Jimmy Carter has always been the Trivial Pursuit answer I can't get. But hearing him rip into George Bush is always fun.
• I know there's a 'Daniel Radcliffe' and 'I'd like to lick' joke in the news of a series of Harry Potter stamps but I'm too busy scrubbing myself with steel wool to make it.
• The vegetarians win a battle and I can still stuff myself with Mars Bars. Is this a victory?

Token Smokin' Hottie: Michel Cote

There are a lot of things to love about Michel Cote.

Let's start with the fact with his starring role in the fantastic movie C.R.A.Z.Y in which he alternates between wearing a series of tight jeans and 70s-tshirts and dressing up like David Bowie to perform Ground Control to Major Tom in front of his mirror.

Cote absolutely rocked in that roll, making himself vulnerable and likeable and super hot all at once. Apparently I wasn't the only one either: I have no idea what a Genie Award is but Cote snagged one for his work on the movie and kudos to him.

(Apologies for the aside but I once went a little bit CRAZY myself where that movie is concerned. While browsing in the local video store I saw a young couple looking at a copy of C.R.A.Z.Y. Because I had seen the movie recently and loved it I had a burst of confidence and a desire to steer them away from the copy of Snakes in a Plan in their other hand. So, as I was standing right next to them I said "oh that movie's great, you should get it out". They gave me a look like I had just asked if they wanted to come back to my car for a threesome and said they had already seen it. I smiled and edged away, skulking around in the Science Fiction section until they left the store. Good times.)

Anyway back to Cote... well maybe not. To be honest I lied when I said there were a lot of things to like about him. Until recently I didn't even know he existed. He's hot, a good actor and knows how to choose good scripts but... reeeeeaally the only other thing I'm basing my love of him on is the fact that his list of film credit shows he has appeared in two movies called The Horse Trader's Daughter and The Belly of the Dragon. And both of those movies sound like they would be pretty awesome.

So it comes down to this: he dresses up like David Bowie and performs Ground Control to Major Tom. David Bowie. Major Tom. Face makeup.

And, honestly, isn't that enough right there?

I know it is a well-worn record...

... but I Can. Not. stand it when girls ditch girls for boys. Oh okay I've done it, you've done it: we're all guilty, but it doesn't mean it's any easier to stomach. There's a big difference, too, in being caught up in the early excitement of a new relationship and temporarily bailing on girl time, versus being ready at the drop of the proverbial freaking hat to trade vagina for you-know-what (hey, my parents are reading this) - and it's the latter that I have such an objection to.

I consider myself fairly boy-mad (despite being 4+ years monogamous) but I've always at least tried to remember how awesome my friends are and act accordingly . However great your relationship, if you have one, or however hot the guy you spy across the room at some dodgy-arse dive (I pray for you you haven't just been at Carnegies because... jesus), boys really do come and (sadly) go sometimes and it will be your friends who are there to pick up the pieces and nurse you back to health.

Okay I'm choking on my own vomit here so I'll end by saying that maybe I wouldn't cut up so rough if I hadn't spent the last hour of my life trying to flag down a taxi for a semi-disabled friend after the spanner of a boy she ditched us for bailed on her. Tool.

UPDATE: Yeah this is a cautionary tale right here. Don't. Blog. Drunk.

Ruff, ruff, ruff (translation: Ruff)

This Sunday I, along with my truly pathetic poodle and (god willing) Aleisha and her equally pathetic but cute pooch will be down in South Perth at some ludicrously early hour doing out bit for the RSPCA at the Million Paws Walk.

This is just my community service announcement bit to say that everyone should go as it’s a good cause and an easy way to do your bit. Plus my dog is super cute and you can pat her.

I’m sorry but…

…I cannot contain my excitement that not only is Jeffrey Masson in Perth but that I get to interview him! (For anyone who doesn’t know he is the professor turned animal ethics/rights author who wrote When Elephants Weep and The Pig Who Sang to the Moon.)

UPDATE: He was fantastic. Just as rationally passionate and compassionate as I hoped he would be with enough doubt about what he was doing to make him sympathetic. Awesome. Definitely one of my most enjoyable interviews ever.

Zodiac Smodiac

Unless my current life take a surprising twist I am unlikely to do any of the following things:

• Become a cartoonist
• Marry Chloe Sevigny
• Become obsessed with a serial killer and risk losing my family and my life as a result.

Lucky me I don’t have to because last night I nabbed a free ticket to Zodiac and now I feel I have lived through a lifetime of all of these things.

My love for Jake Gyllenhaal (give me a break - I’m not checking the spelling) and Mark Ruffalo is outweighed only by my love of Robert Downey Junior. Seriously, I love, love the RDJ. And the fact that all three of them were in the movie was a huge drawcard.

Sadly, as Paula pointed out, it was not unlike sitting through three hours of Law and Order: The Less Exciting Years.

Oh sure people died and it was alternately funny and creepy in places and all three actors did a bang up job but, jesus, it was long. Not just long but long. And it felt it. I don’t have ADHD and I do have a pretty good attention span, particularly when RDJ is onscreen and wearing a cravat but for most of the movie, including the many, many years it spans Nothing. Happens.

Maybe the number of red herrings, blind alleys and unsatisfactory results are what real policing is all about and maybe, in that way, it’s slightly truer to life than the average thriller. But just because my life as a journo consists mostly of long phone conversations and council meetings I don’t see anyone trying to remake All The Presidents Men with this kind of realism.

Though I would totally be up for it.

Alternate titles to Barack Obama's book The Audacity of Hope If It had been written by President Bush.

• The Impertinence of Facts
• The Insolence of Public Sentiment
• The Nerve of Congressional Oversight
• The Hubris of Habeas Corpus
• The Effrontery of Climate Change
• The Nucular Hope

(From McSweeneys.net)

Not Shown Actual Size

If anyone hasn't seen this pictures of a Liger doing the email rounds... (thanks Rachel)

An IQ test would be a start...

Okay, so I know that uttering the phrase “what happens in Mr Buford’s class stays in Mr Buford’s class” alone should be worth a lawsuit but fuck me there should be a licence or some kind of test before some people are allowed to have kids.

There's no deadwood here.

If future civilisations ever stumble upon this blog they will assume (perhaps rightly) that I was pretty lame.

“This fucking girl,” they’ll say, “all she ever did was talk about hot guys and movies she’s seen and bloody TV shows. Why wasn’t she feeding the goddamn masses or something?”

Yes why indeedy.

But, seriously. Let’s talk about Deadwood. Because this show is pretty awesome.

I don’t even remember it being on TV and, until a friend raved about it a few weeks ago, I’d never thought a thing about it. I was living in a Deadwood-free world. It was my loss because, as I have discovered, in the past week or so, this show rocks.

Where else can you hear the words “motherfucking,” “cocksucking” and “cunt” not once but ten times in the first ten minutes of any given episode? Where else can you see someone turn from an unbelievably menacing pimp to a charming rogue and back again in one scene? Where else can you see the luscious Timothy Olyphant brood and clench his way through every scene, his cheekbones practically slicing through his skin and melting my TV with his hotness?

Freakin’ nowhere, that’s where.

Everyone has their talents.

Some people can work out elaborate square routes in their heads, others have musical talent I will never, ever have and some people (like Andy) can make conversations with total strangers for, um, about ten minutes (as he proved yesterday at the ballet by striking up a conversation with someone I think he thought I knew but who I had never met before in my life).

I am quite the expert in wasting time.

This is not quite the same as being able to cure cancer or perfect an arabesque but it’s what I got lumped with and it’s what I happen to be rather good at. We all have to play to our strengths and in the interests of helping others to help themselves this blog is devoted to the best ways to waste time…. specifically on the internet.

Your first stop is the most amusing gossip site on the internet. Yes it’s kinda stupid and very trashy but it’s also sort of awesome. From there it’s just a hop skip and a jump to the Go Fug Yourself girls who offer the kind of fashion criticisms you wish you could come up with on the spot. In the old days I would have suggested trying Fametracker next but the website’s currently on hold so if you do want to check it out just go through the Fame Audit or Celebrity versus Thing archives, which are still very fricking funny. I never thought I would be convinced by their verdict in the Johnny Depp versus chocolate debate but I really, really was. Madness.

All this, of course, is foreplay because if you really want to waste time, not just waste it but really waste it you can’t go past Television Without Pity. I’ve been spruiking this website for awhile but most people’s eyes tend to glaze over when I get to ‘it does recaps of TV shows’. But… it does. I occasionally use it to catch up if I miss a crucial episode of a favoured show but much more enjoyable, I find, is to read through archives of shows I’ve seen before just for the benefit of their super snarky recaps. Yes I am a dork but honestly this website’s great if you’re a bit of a TV nerd or a bit obsessive.

If you’re not but you still have some time to kill Overheard at the Office and it’s cousin Overheard at the Beach offer a good time. I sometimes suspect some of them must be made up but, disturbingly, most of them probably aren’t. Very amusing, though not too time consuming (which may be a plus or a minus, depending on where you stand).

If you’re still at a loss you can broaden your horizons or your mind or something and read some classics online. This is addictive but will at least counter some of the suspected brain-rot from too much gossip and fashion-sniping browsing. Maybe.

Next instalment: How to entertain yourself using only a telephone directory and a mobile phone.

...AND hot men in tights.

For someone like me who is by no means a ballet enthusiast this weekend was something of a test with two ballets in three days. On Friday night I dipped my two in the water with Coppelia and today I saw Swan Lake.

It's funny what seeing two productions right after one another can do. Usually, I think, one of them suffers by comparison and such was the case here. I was a bit torn after seeing Coppelia. I thought the costumes were great, the set looked fantastic and the whole thing was... enjoyable. But that's about it. I think I wanted to like it more than I did. By comparison Swan Lake absolutely blew me away.

Granted it did have one of the most memorable scores ever composed to work with but, even given that, it was just a fantastic achievement. It was funny without being patronising, beautiful without being pretentious and uber sexy without making me squirm in the seat beside my mother. The whole thing was just... gorgeous and inspiring and easily one of the best productions I've ever seen. I don't actually remember being so excited by something since I saw Les Miserables for the first time and decided I wanted to be Gavrosh.

I sometimes feel that ballets, opera and so on are becoming more and more popularist in an attempt not to die out and appeal to people who aren't really into ballet or opera, or find them intimidating. This is understandable but it was half my problem with Coppelia - it felt a little bit like a panto without dialogue and with some dancing thrown in for kicks. The entire production felt a little bit like a giant wink at the audience.

This version of Swan Lake has obviously gone down a similar path in terms of not being a conventional ballet but somehow it works. Like Coppelia it has a sense of humour but it's a bit more restrained and under-the-surface, just waiting to flick around into tragedy. It's a production like this that really makes you realise how fantastic the theatre can be and how something like a ballet can do something that a really good book, play or movie just can't. Oh and did I mention the half naked men? Yup I should probably mention them...

Quotable Quotes: A Passage to India

"Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talks that would describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own existence. Inside its cocoon of work or social obligation, the human spirit slumbers for the most part, registering the distinction between pleasure and pain, but not nearly as alert as we pretend. There are periods in the most thrilling day during which nothing happens, and though we continue to exclaim, “I do enjoy myself,, or , “I am horrified,” we are insincere."
(A Passage to India, E.M Forster)

It's not easy being green.

Things I have discovered while living on a budget

• The dirty feeling associated with getting (semi-trashy) DVDS out of the library can be assuaged by also borrowing a few large intellectual-looking books that you never intend to read.
• Homemade soup assembled from leftover ingredients in the back of the fridge/cupboard tastes quite good. If you’re hungry enough.
• Concerts involving barber shop quartet after barber shop quarter may, in fact, be almost free entertainment but they will cost you your will to live (sorry Billy).

HoYay or not to HoYay - that is the question...

You know that feeling you get when somebody unexpectedly says something that you completely agree with and that you never expected to hear anyone else say?

For me it happens from time to time whenever someone quotes a slightly obscure movie or book that I love and it never fails to excite me because, sadly, not all of my close friends share my (frequently strange) likes/dislikes/interests and talking to a kindred spirit is an awesome thing. Until, of course, you find out that while, yes, they may be a big fan of Firefly they are also a neo-nazi/Liberal voter/porn baron. (Really, deep down I know that it's what you're like, not what you like, that matters.)

I had that feeling today (the good one, not the post-nazi discovery one) when a certain TwoP-er sent me to this website and to a page lovingly titled ‘Boy Kissing’. Yes it is exactly what it sounds like.No it’s not really safe for work if someone is likely to wander by. And yes it did put a smile on my face.It’s not exactly HoYay because the subtext is more, well, less sub and more text but whatever.

Boy kissing is a weird thing in that not everybody gets it or particularly likes it. It’s such a cliche that straight boys like to see two (or more) girls going for it but, surprisingly, it doesn’t seem to be quite the same among the straight female population. Or maybe they’re just a little shy. Whichever it is I want to know. Straight girls (and the rest) check out the website and let me know what you think.

Token Smokin' Hottie: Milo Ventimiglia

I am absolutely nothing if not predictable.

And never more so than when it comes to boys.

Write me a TV character with a wiry body and brooding dark looks who dresses like a young James Dean and acts like a punk but is secretly a total bookworm and what do you think I’m going to do with him? Love him of course - how could I not? And indeed I did when Milo Ventimiglia first walked into my life as faux bad arse Jess in Gilmore Girls (ahem, shut up).

I was crushed when he left the show prematurely and resigned myself to pretending not to own the dvds and remembering the good times. But somebody, somewhere loves me because now he’s back on my television in Heroes and it’s like we’re right back where we started. The boy is not just a pretty face: he has gravitas... okay, and a pretty face and unarguably fine body.

Sure he no longer looks like he might stub a cigarette into my first edition Gatbsy but the guy is still smoking hot, with or without his emo bangs (sorry Johnsy: spoiler!) and if he and his hot onscreen brother don’t just tear off their shirts and start going for it soon somebody will have to explain to me why (hey I'm not advocating incest but surely the writers will throw me a bone (teehee) soon and make them suddenly unrelated so it will be Game. On).

To summarise: even with any future scars (sorry Johnsy!) this token smokin' hottie might acquire onscreen I could eat him up with a spoon.

NOTE: I am aware he looks a bit like a Mama's boy in this photo but, man, I'm busy and it was either this or one where he looks like a straight man pretending to be a gay cowboy. Seriously, you just know the photographer was all "and sort of look like you might stick your hand down your pants, uh huh, good but now maybe pull another button off your shirt... thaaat's right". Anyway I believe I already have a smokin' hottie who has cornered that particular niche.

UPDATE: Okay I've changed the photo anyway. Forgot I had this one and I think he looks a bit better. Though possibly electrocuted.

Is that a letter in my pants or am I just pleased to hear from you?

I'm not sure what I think about this. I suppose it's quite nice but... I don't know.

Your love gives me such a thrill... but your love won't pay my bills - I want money.

Having your bank call your parents on a Sunday looking for you is never a good thing. Why is it that I doubt they’re calling me up to press a quick $100 on me, or to let me know they’ve been overcharging me for years and have bought me something lovely to apologise?

This happened yesterday but somehoworother they haven’t managed to track me down yet. I don’t know why they called.

I don’t know what they want. But I suspect it may have had something to do with my credit card and the debt I have accumulated there through a combination of ill-advised life choices and the two pairs of shoes I bought yesterday.

So it has come to this. I have $109 in my bank account and that is it. I will not spend a penny more until next pay day next Thursday. I’ve paid my rent for the next couple of weeks so I’m okay on that front. All I really need is petrol for the car, food for my belly and enough mullah to finance a social life. I just need to prioritise.

No more food. Other than what I have at home, obviously. I have dukkah, frozen veggies, pasta as far as the eye can see, two packets of pastry and I own a pie maker. This is my food until pay day. No more shopping. The shoes were a very pretty mistake. No way am I returning those puppies but I can handle no more shopping for awhile.

No more booze. Allow me to clarify: no more non-free booze. I have free drinks on Friday and four bottles of wine under the sink. This, too, I can just about handle. Minimal car use. In hindsight purchasing a pair of highly impractical (though lovely) very high red heels before I made the decision to walk everywhere may have been premature. I don’t care. The petrol tank is barely above empty and there it will stay. Diet coke. Weeeell, this is a grey area. The fact is that I have no diet coke in the house. And that I can’t handle. I know I have a problem: I know it’s probably growing a brain tumour in my head but whatever. We all have to go one day. I will buy diet coke. But not $109 worth.

So apologies in advance for being a boring, boring person (you know, more so) for the next two weeks. I’m tightening my belt and battening down the hatches.

Wherever there are free drinks I will be there.

Wherever there are high costs involved I will be on the couch.

If you’re calling about the $5 I borrowed you’re going through to voicemail.

If you owe me $60: call me.

Thank god I have the first series of 21 Jump Street to keep me company. Johnny Depp's terrible acting and adonis-like visage don't cost a thing.

Happy Birthday, HP

"Tell me what company thou keepst, and I'll tell thee what thou art."
(Miguel de Cervantes)

Better safe than sorry

Sometimes I suspect that if I were able to harness the time I fritter away on the internet and, instead, do something useful with my time I could actually achieve something semi-worthwhile.

However, on the off chance that the 'something' I achieve could be something impressive but detrimental to humankind (ie: the A-bomb, gunpowder or formal shorts) I choose to keep reading crap and bring you gold like this site which chronicles the life and times of working on an IT help desk:

Tech Support: "Ok, let's put your operating system disk in the drive."
Customer: "Ok...which way does it go in?"
Tech Support: "The shiny side faces down."
Customer: "Alright...um...which way is down."
Tech Support: (rolling eyes) "Towards the floor."
Customer: "Ahhh...so what way does the other side face?"
Tech Support: "Are you kidding?"
Customer: (outraged) "Hey! I'm not a computer genius, ok? That's why I called you!"
Tech Support: "Ok, that side faces down too."

It was the best of time it was the blurst of times.

I fell in love with The Shins years and years and years ago when I saw the film clip for their fantastic song New Slang on Rage late one night. I'd never heard of them or heard the song before but I thought it was amazing so I scribbled the name down and went to 78 Records the next day.

I bought the CD Oh Inverted World straight away and played the absolute shite out of New Slang. Constantly.

Years and years later I was so excited by the presence of The Shins music (and New Slang in particular) on the movie Garden State that I believe I hit Bec in the arm when we saw it together. Possibly quite hard.

Then suddenly The Shins seemed to be everybody's new favourite band or whatever and, I admit, I felt a bit pissed off. Where had all these people been years earlier when I was trying to force my friends to admit New Slang was the best song they'd ever heard or perusing music magazines for a glimpse into who the hell they were? Bastards. I sulked about, rolling my eyes when anyone tried to tell me how good they were, rolling out that classic indie music snob catchphrase: "Oh I prefer their earlier stuff."

Yes, yes it's very true that I am a music snob and a bitter jealous one at that but something good has come out of The Shins' apparently new-found popularity because they are coming to Perth in August. Yay. Tickets on sale next week.

But we were so close...

When one door opens another window closes. Lindsay gets a new page counter and mine fucks off. This wouldn't enrage me so much if it hadn't been so very close to 1000. I will investigate and bring the cat back.

UPDATE: The cat is back. Order is restored. Crisis averted, though I may have been exaggerating a smidgen when I said it was so very close to 1000...

I motherfucking hate Mother's Day.

This is not because I hate my mother. I don't - she's awesome, but because of the patronising fucking ads on TV I have to suffer through.

I was thrilled to find out today that Lindsay hates the KFC ads as much as I do because they are the absolute pits. How fucking sad are the lives of the women in these ads that having their own bodyweight in deep fried chicken shoved down their throat is supposed to be the highlight of the year? And why do their families get to sit around with shit-eating grins, acting like they deserve a medal for waddling their giant arses down the road with a twenty?

Moreover, why are these ads strongly implying to me that 364 days a year these women are chained to the stove? Why don't their husbands put down the drumstick and get into the goddamn kitchen more than once a year? I swear I've seen one of these ads in which the mother ends up cleaning up after her disgusting progeny, though that may have been a dream I had during one of my KFC-ad-induced rage blackouts.

Almost as bad as KFC's offerings was the sad little press release I received today from... I don't even know who, suggesting that the best way for Dad and the kids to celebrate Mother's Day was to get into the kitchen (again) and bake her something with cranberries.

Oh jesus. Is this really what mother's day has come down to? Chicken fat and cranberries? Just do me a favour and rip my womb out right now.

Quotable Quotes: Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

"In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move."
(Douglas Adams, Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy)

April Audit

I am currently: Watching the Miss USA 2007 pageant. It is worse than you can possible imagine.
I should be: Doing shorthand. Pah.
Later on I will: Go and see Dylan Moran. Awesome.
I am reading: Alias Grace (Margaret Atwood). Very nearly finished.
I am listening to: Nothing new.
Last movie I saw: Stomp the Yard. Oh god. It was sort of awesome but I've never seen so many wannabee homies in one movie theatre.
I am thinking about: The future. And what colour I should paint my table.
Last disappointment: Realising I may never finish another novel. Because I'm la-zy.
Last victory: Passing 70 words a minute in shorthand, much to my surprise.
Last good deed: Um... buying coffees at work. Which is sad.
Last bad deed: Not doing the Walk Against Want with Kym this morning.
I am looking forward to: Walking into town... and Andy getting home today.
I am dreading: Shorthand test tomorrow, for which I have not prepared and which I do not want to do.

I think living in Northbridge is making me paranoid.

Today I got a call on the intercom while I was home alone. I don't always answer the intercom because it faces out onto a slightly dodgy street over the road from a crack den and a hotel and I reason that my friends and family have my mobile number if they want to find out if I'm home. Today I did answer it, however, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: Hello?
Man: Uh hello, sorry to bother you I'm (indistinguishable) from (indistinguishable) repairs.
Me: Uh huh...
Man: I'm downstairs at the (indistinguishable) hairdresser because they have a leak and I think it might be coming from your balcony.
Me: My... balcony.
Man: Yeah I was just wondering if I can come up and have a quick two minute look at it to see if that's how the water is getting in. Sorry to put you out.

So at that point I let him up, he checked the potenntial leak out and was on his way, right?

Er no. Clearly paranoia is getting to me because I immediately thought this could be some kind of cunning ruse to get this guy into the complex and/or my apartment.

So I lied.

But that wasn't enough. I didn't just lie - I lied. I fell into the classic trap of bad liars and went ridiculously, improbably fucking overboard. I told him I was hosting a baby shower on the balcony so, no, he couldn't really come up to check it out right then because it was full of excitable and potentially hormonal women.

Seriously. I wish I were joking.

But, to my credit, not being made of stone I thought there was a fair chance this guy was telling the truth. After all he sounded so apologetic for dragging me away from the "baby shower" (or so I thought - but more on that later). So I told him to come back later in the afternoon when I knew Ruth would be at the house with me. Cunning, eh?

Well, when the guy turned up a few hours later I thought straight away that it was a lucky thing for both of us I hadn't let him in the first time. One look at his uber dirty black adidas tracksuit pants, singlet peppered with stains of unspecified origin and his general 'I may have just come from robbing a bank' demeanour and I probably would have koshed him over the head with the wok first and asked questions later.

But, tracksuit pants or no, he did appear to be there on legitimate business and went out to the balcony to check it out. He talked (presumably) intelligently about leaks, cracks and grout. And about this point I thought things were going pretty well: the guy was legit, I'd done the smart thing and I'd gotten away with a pretty dodgy lie.

If only.

Because it was about this time that tracksuit-man happened to mention he had popped his head over my balcony earlier that day while fixing the roof below... Had Popped. His Head. Over. My. Balcony...

... presumably moments before he rang my buzzer to be told I was hosting a baby shower. On my balcony. Uh huh. Awesome. The smug bastard knew I had lied. He knew it and I knew that he knew it.

I got him the hell out of there as soon as I could.

But the sorry footnote to this sad little tale is that I need to call my old mate tracksuit man this week to let him know if it's okay to go ahead and fix the cracks on the balcony.

At this point in our tenuous relationship I fear I have so little hand - having already been exposed as a distrustful, lying, snob that the only way to fix things is to let him into the apartment and help him carry my TV, computer and assorted valuables out to his car myself.

It's a moral grey area really...

I really am anti death penalty but, at the same time, I am pro being allowed to run down in my car the dickslaps who (allegedly) bashed three kangaroos to death. This little joey was the only survivor.

This day in history...

• Marked the start of the Old Bailey trial of Oscar Wilde in 1895. Fuckers.
• Was the wedding of Lady Elizabeth Bowes Lyon to the then-Duke of York (Queen Mum and King George VI) in 1923.
• Was the day of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster in 1986.

The Anzac Post

I know I posted Sassoon the other day but, screw it, it's Anzac Day.

Base Details

IF I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath
I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base,
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.
You'd see me with my puffy petulant face,
Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel,
Reading the Roll of Honour.
`Poor young chap,'I'd say -- `I used to know his father well;
Yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap.'
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,
I'd toddle safely home and die -- in bed.

(Siegfried Sassoon)

Token Smokin' Hottie: Carl Barat

To paraphrase a great movie I feel I am drifting back into the arena of the unwell. That is to say that my obsession with now defunct UK greats The Libertines has been well and truly reignited by the purchase and hasty reading of The Libertines: Bound Together biography.

A quality read with great ho-yay laden pictures (Bec: that mock-up postcard you sent me is on the fridge in the new house. It makes me hungry alright...) and suddenly I'm full of a desire to dress up like Oscar Wilde and throw a television through the window...

Hence this week's Token Smokin' Hottie, the quite delicious Carl Barat who famously smashed the shit out of his face on a bathroom sink but managed to retain uber hot status. Bastard's talented too.

"The question is not, "Can they reason?" nor, "Can they talk?" but rather, "Can they suffer?" (Jeremy Bentham)

So our government has decided to continue to keep breeding pigs in stalls so small they can’t turn or take more than a step in any direction for another ten years.

Awesome, well done guys.

Other western countries around the world are phasing them out or at least making sure the pigs spend less time in these crates but pigs can’t technically vote in this country so apparently there’s really no need to keep them happy.

This is really, really fucked.I know bacon tastes is really delicious but it really doesn’t taste good enough for this.

How can something so wrong feel so right?

I feel that I should hate this website because reading a really great book on a computer screen is not the same as reading a lovely real copy of the book and I should be against anything that might stop people from buying books on principle... but I must confess I keep going back there for a wee snippet of some old favourites. Gah, I"m no longer going to be welcome in the library when this gets out...

Quotable Quotes: Suicide in the Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

(Siegfried Sassoon)

Only when she looks down?

Some days are worse than others. And some days are worse than those days. Then some days take a giant dump on all the aforementioned days and reach heights that can’t be topped.

Today is not quite one of those days but somehow I have gone from being super chipper this morning to being one step away from going up the road for another bag of Nando’s chips and using my diet coke can to bash myself to death.

On top of naffed-up photos, The fucking Voice, an irate deputy lord Mayor and a headache you might think that another visit from The Man Who Calls Up and Cries might be the final straw.

You’d be surprised.

Regular readers may remember him from a few weeks ago, when he memorably wept over the future of OBE while playing incredibly loud in the background in a slightly mental fashion.

Today we reunited when he talked me to talk about a particular ABC newsreader. A rather attractive newsreader, he was at pains to reassure me, not “the one that looks like a Klingon when she looks down”.

This newsreader had, he said, been wearing a lot of turquoise-coloured clothes lately. Not that this was a bad thing - he liked turquoise, his daughter (he’s breeding?) likes turquoise… everyone’s happy. But lately said newsreader has started to vary her wardrobe a little, including wearing rings on her right hand… her right hand you see, not her left, so that her loyal viewers don’t know if she’s married or not.

The little minx.

Part of being a journalist in my particular organisation is dealing with wackos and there are absolutely no shortage of them. But this guy… well I kind of like him. Despite (or perhaps because of) being completely mental he’s actually pretty funny. He knows that he’s nuts which is more than a lot of people can say and that he’s often only a drink away from fall-down drunk which, again, is at least some kind of self awareness.

More than that he knows he’s being a pain in the arse and apologises constantly for wasting my time or talking shite. Somehow this makes me feel like I’m doing a community service by talking to him because he seems to appreciate the human contact. At least he keeps coming back for more.

It also makes me realise that however crappy my Friday is going things could be a looot worse for me. This guy could know where I live, for a start.

And yep the crazy vaguely operatic music is indeed still playing in the background.

Honestly it’s no wonder they were caught.

All references to “homosexual perverts” aside this court case involving two men kidnapping and raping a 14-year-old boy is obviously pretty disturbing.

Now the jury has ruled the men planned to murder the kid to stop him from going to the police.

Horrible stuff.But like any good gory court case there is an element of the incredibly bizarre in this one.

Because, according to today’s news reports, part of the evidence against Robbie Sebastian Wheeler and Victor Leslie Urquhart was an envelope full of “damning notes”. Including the following:

“We have to get rid of him soon”

and:

“Won't acid take care of the body so it's just bones?”

Now really... Is this really the kind of matter that can be discussed via notes?

Asking someone to pick up dishwashing liquid or a carton of milk = perfectly reasonable to leave a note.

Discussing how you really do need to remember to get rid of the body of the 14-year-old you haven’t yet killed in the other room, or musing on whether to dissolve his body in acid?

Not note material.

What kind of lives do these men lead that this kind of thing is worth of a post-it and nothing more? I'd love to hear the subject matter when they really sit down for a serious talk.

And really nobody, whatever he's into, wants to come home from a hard day at the office to find a whiteboard full of messages like “which of us has to dismember him, do you think?” or “Shall you hold him down while I rape him this time?”

Victor, Robbie, if you ever do get out of jail: put down the pen and paper and get some goddamn face time.

Oh you mean THAT guy…

I’m sure I’ve emailed this to a few people before but it still makes me laugh and is worth the read if you’ve got the time. On my own front I’d also like to formally add The Guy Who Has to Out-Obscure-Band You When Talking About Music Even Though You Suspect He Listens To Linkin Park along with The Guy Who Stares Into Your Eyes During Sex Because He Thinks Its Romantic And Not In Fact Incredibly Creepy.

Hero Schmero, just take your shirt off again.

Sometimes I think the television world is run by a bunch of horny middle-aged men. Often I think I’m completely correct in this assumption, based on the number of improbably “hot” women and girls who inhabit the TV universe, frequently slumming it with guys who are nothing much to look at themselves and provide the average female viewer with nothing but a vague sense of unease.

Seems like there are a lot more unattractive men on TV than unattractive women is all I’m saying.

But I would like to take it all back and kneel at the feet of the creator of Heroes who have lovingly packed more man candy into a weekly hour of television than I would ever have thought possible. Honestly if the hot older brother isn’t planting moist Bro-Yay-laden kisses on his even hotter younger brother then the long-haired heroin addict hottie is taking his shirt off for no good reason at all and constantly wandering around looking like he’s just about to, already has or is in the process of taking a shower.

Meanwhile the memory-removing black one and the black Dad are competing for the title of Hot Black Bald Man (both doing an admirable job by the way) and even the scruffy-but-possibly-gay schoolkid looks like a is-he-legal-I’m-not-sure-that-could-be-chest-hair one to watch.

Phew. Believe it or not this was going to be a blog about the translation of comics to the big and small screen. Really it was. I was going to talk about why Sin City and 300 are more interesting than Spiderman and Batman and how they got it so right with the first two X-men movies and so very it-blows-very-hard wrong with the third one.I was even going to throw in some references to Ghost World and that other one with Paul Giamatti that I could never get into.

But now is not the time for my personal theories on superheros on the big/small screen. Now is the time for daydreaming about shirtless junkies and uber hot male nurses and politicians. Oh yes and for looong cold showers - now is definitely the time for that.

Next target: the disabled.

I was going to write something about this but then I thought why bother? The day John Howard stops being a cunt is the day I start wearing white hot pants and spraying myself with a hose. His latest proposal to stop HIV positive people from migrating to Australia is offensive in so many ways I can't quite bear to even go into it for fear I will have an aneurism. And if there's one fucker I don't want to be responsible for my death it's our hopefully s00n-to-be-gone PM.

I only care about the cute and fluffy ones, though, obviously…

When this slightly sooky looking cavalier-cross was found he had an elastic band wrapped around his neck, was undernourished and riddled with fleas biting his skin.

The elastic band was on so tightly that it had dug into his skin and caused an infection.

His owner admitted that she’d known he was sick but hadn’t taken him to the vet. Because she was a fuckstick, presumably.

Without the RSPCA Toby would suffered in pain for weeks until his owner took him to the vet or let him die. With the RSPCA he was taken away from his owner, who was fined and given major skin graft surgery and placed into a new home.

I’m only writing about this on here because I can’t actually write about the RSPCA Million Paws walk fundraiser for the paper I work for. Heaven forbid we encourage people to go to this walk and actually raise money and awareness for a fantastic cause if the event is sponsored by another media outlet. What a fucking tragedy that would be.

For anyone who does care about this kind of thing the Million Paws walk is on May 20th, kicking off from Sir James Mitchell Park in South Perth and it’s a fantastic cause.

And if anyone needs an almost three legged, half blind and almost certainly senile poodle to drag around after them… well you know who to call.

Hmm er cut me off a er piece of uh... that...

Okay MJ *sniff* Pete Doherty's weeping facial sores are still going strong. You just had to go and ruin it for me, didn't you...

Quoteable Quotes: Catch 22

"As always occurred when he quarreled over principles in which he believed passionately, he would end up gasping furiously for air and blinking back bitter tears of conviction. There were many principles in which Clevinger believed passionately. He was crazy." (Catch 22)

Pussycat Dolls, Pussycat Dolls, where have you been all my life?

After only one week living in coupled-up semi-bliss I have uncovered the major flaw in the whole living-with-the-boyfriend plan. The major reason why living with a girl or girls is awesome.

It came to me at 9.30pm last night as I watched Channel 10's the Pussy Cat Dolls Present: Search for the New Doll (or whatever).

This show personifies everything I love about reality TV. It's incredibly trashy, everyone bitches about everyone else, it's graced by/hosted by/judged by C-grade celebrities and it features girls trying to out-skank each other. Obviously it's completely awesome. And yet...

When I watch this kind of thing with girls it's a top-shelf bitch fest. I get to make fun of the boring girl who looks like a pre-nose job Ashley Simpson or the girl who cried because (apparently) she's blown away at how good her voice sounds. I can talk about how much I hate that little growling noise singers make and snigger at the classic reality TV show 'reaction shots' and the dodgy cuts where some production editor has clearly mish-mashed some random shots together to get the storyline or conflict that he or she wants.

But watching trashorific TV with Andy... well, for a start, Andy can't stand it and disappears into the other room. So I'm watching it by myself and... who am I supposed to make sarcastic remarks to?

I have to get right up against the wall and shout if I expect my neighbours to hear my one liners and re-hashing the show the next day tends to take the spontaneity out of comparing some poor unfortuante soul's weave to roadkill. Instead I end up sitting on the couch and worrying that if someone walked into the room they'd think I was enjoying it in a, you know, non ironic way.

They might even think I coveted the hideous panty-baring minidresses sported by four girls last night instead of day-dreaming about how many sequins it takes to look that tacky and how the girls were probably all furiously sewing by torchlight to take the hems up half a freaking foot. Okay those dresses were sort of fantastic in a crotch-displaying tranny way but still...

New policy? I'm keeping Ali and Ruth on speed dial so I can call them up and bellow "Is she supposed to be fellating that pole?" down the phone at them at only a seconds notice. Actually I could probably have a text message ready to go with "Is she supposed to be fellating that..." and fill in the blanks as I go. Yes, folks: it's that awesome - why aren't you watching it?

Sometimes it’s good to preserve a little bit of mystery

There is a store down the road from my new abode that never fails to fire my imagination every time I walk past it purely based on the fact that it is called The Resistance.

I’ve never seen inside the shop because I’m usually walking the other way and just catch a glimpse of it over my shoulder.I think this is a good thing because, really, there’s no way the actual shop can live up to the shop in my mind.

In my head it’s a coffee house/safe haven for hot men with stubble and berets.

There’s a one coffee and five cigarette minimum and if the inhabitants of The Resistance aren’t planning ways to overthrow the government they’re teaching me how to play poker “Eastern European style” or look dashing while wearing braces and a stained white wifebeater.

To gain entry to The Resistance you have to either know the secret knock, know the secret password or bring your own spirits.

Everybody has well-thumbed copies of intellectual books which everybody assumes you’ve read but nobody ever asks you to prove it.

Nobody seems to have any money but everyone has awesome, if shabby, clothes, and an endless supply of booze.

At night someone drags out a gramophone and plays old records while everyone gets rat arsed.

In reality it's another Vietnamese restaurant or a cruddy second hand store flogging smelly jumpers and books without their covers but in my mind it’s a pretty awesome place.

Luke: call me.

Lindsay will tell you that I am a pussy when it comes to skinny boys who have just come into a man's body and one certain Perth actor in particular but I swear I am unbiased in suggesting that anyone interested in that sort of thing or in interesting theatre generally to catch Phaedra's Love at PICA until April 22.

Drinking half a bottle of wine before going is, however, not recommended, unless you want to find yourself giggling like a school girl when an underwear clad man winks at you from a metre away.

And just so I can say I did I'm putting the lovely Luke Ryan on my watch-list or, as if you prefer, keeping him in a holding pattern, right now. The boy is talented.

He can zing his arrow into my buttocks any time (hey, it's an AD reference you dirty so and sos)

I’m such a predictable bastard but I’m pathetically excited about the start of the BBC Robin Hood series this Sunday night. I’m really not spruiking for the ABC but I’ve been hanging out for this one ever since I saw the first promo shots and realised it was likely to be stuffed full of skinny boys, bows and arrow, horses… honestly, I’m practically panting over here.

It might turn out to be lame but, really, considering I've seen Prince of Thieves about 10 bloody times and love, love it how picky do you think I am?

Ch-ch-ch-changes

New colour scheme, updated profile, new pic, multiple posts... all point to the fact that I've got too much time on hands.

I'll take what milestones I can get...

... Yay! 800 visitors since I put the counter on here. In my mind, instead of having, like, 10 people drop past 80 times over the months I have 800 readers just hanging on my every dribble... Can you say delusional? I'm ready for my close-up...

Night time pursuits enjoyed by my neighbours, judging on what I hear from them:

• Dancing.
• Turning the taps on and off and on and off and then on again just for shits and giggles.
• Rollingsomething heavy and spherical down the hallway.
• Listening to Anthony Call-whatshisname. You know, the gay one. And I don't mean gay as in lame, but he qualifies on both fronts.

You know what really grinds my gears?

You know what really grinds my gears?

The apparent media conspiracy that is going on as to what constitutes a “healthy,” and “curvy” woman’s body.

My long-simmering rage on this has reached boiling point thanks to The West Australian’s coverage, today, of Glamour magazine’s list of sexiest female bodies.

This annual list has, this year, been topped by the lovely Scarlett Johannson which… fair call. She’s hot and I like the fact that a she can wear her giant knockers pretty well. But what really grinds my gears is that the paper goes on to make a big deal of the fact that the top women on the list were “curvier” kind of women. And sure, Boobs McScarlett qualifies. But who comes next?

Jessica Alba. Uh huh. I think she’s hot but… you know. Giselle Buchanan, who looks like a boy with tits if you ask me… Jennifer Aniston (a boy without the tits) and so on. And the paper make such a big deal of “skinny supermodel” Kate Moss being down at number 20. As though half the women above her on the list aren’t exactly as teeny tiny skinny.

The fact is that every one of the women on the list are tiny by comparison to the average woman. And that’s fair enough because it’s the business they’re in and it’s what they have to look like to succeed. I think some of them are uber hot and probably perfectly healthy too. I don’t give a toss about the list or these women’s bodies per se - I just give a toss about that media coverage that tries to make women think people like Jessica Alba and Jennifer Aniston are “curvy” and normal-sized women.

They’re not. They’re tiny, toned and put about ten times as much work into their bodies as the average woman. And again: that’s fine but don’t act like this is normal.

I hate the fucking media conspiracy to arbitrarily hail someone or other as the new saviour of “curvy” women just because you can’t see their ribs through their clothes or because their tits haven’t completely wasted away to pecs. It’s as fake and as transparently false as fucking Cameron Diaz’s outrageous claims about eating ten hamburgers before an awards ceremony. What. Ever.

So go ahead and covet these hot bodied wenches, and feel free to think some or all of them look fantastic. Just don’t pretend that this is normal or that the rise of Jessica Fucking Aniston is going to make wide-hipped, rolly-polly-stomached women everywhere suddenly believe that they have got it going on. Fucking ridiculous.

Items found in a cardboard box while unpacking my stuff in my new home...

• A short black electrical cord, presumably belonging to a device I neither recall buying nor ever owning.
• A plaser cast of my teeth.
• A VHS tape with episodes from series 3 Buffy. Hey, it's still good.
• The prologue (torn from a book) of Heart of Darkness.

Moving, moving moving...

Yep I've been quite the slack bint blogger but it's all in the name of moving house. My new Northbridge pad is shaping up pretty nicely if you ignore the broken blinds, broken champagne glass(es) and the pile of crap I just dumped in the cupboard because I couldn't be arsed putting it away...

On the plus side, I saw the worst movie ever last night. Seriously Art School Confidential almost gives Gigli a run for its money. Okay, I'm kidding it doesn't but 'almost almost' is enough...

Noteworthy notes to the PR who is ruining my life:

1. My desire to run a story on whatever bullshit event or product you are spruiking is inversely proportionate to the number of ‘follow up’ or ‘just checking in’ calls I receive from you.

2. Every time you try to bully me into getting a late-night photographer I want to poke out your eyes with my pen and I was lying when I said I had checked with the photographer.

3. About half of everything I say to you is a lie.

4. I didn’t go to that function last week because I would rather strip naked, grease myself up and throw myself into the paper-clip emporium than be trapped with you in a room for even an hour.

5. I’m taking my dislike for you out on your clients and the stories I write about them.

300 8-packs

I hate the fact that there is a lot of snobbery about the fantasy genre.

I have been a fairly big fan of fantasy books ever since I read Ursula LeGuin’s fantastic Earthsea series in primary school.

I’m also a big fan of other genres but I never get as much shit about reading anything else as I do about fantasy. And because I studied English at uni and am well into my Forster and Fitzgerald etc people seem to be surprised at my David Gemmell collection. Not just surprised but… kinda judgemental.

Which annoys me sometimes but, you know, if they base that judgment on what they see of fantasy movies… well, who can blame them?

While watching 300 last night, however, I did start to wish the genre had a bit more respect. Because then, I reason, they could produce some better goddamn movies.

Not that 300 was bad. Despite being completely ridiculous, wildly historically inaccurate, peppered with the most blatant displays of unnecessary nudity I’ve ever seen, more eight packs than you can poke a stick at, coming off as vaguely racist and chock full of corny dialogue it was sort of stupidly engaging.

Okay maybe the eight packs had something to do with it but still.

Anyway, the movie was enjoyable and all but not great and, thinking about it, I don’t think there has been more than a handful of fantasy movies that I thought were really well done. The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Willow, Ladyhawke and The Princess Bride are about all I can come up with off the top of my head, and I’m not entirely sure the latter strictly qualifies.

On the other hand I could list a string of stinkers without trying too hard. (I would do so here but if I have to recall the utter tripe I watched recently that was supposedly based on the Earthsea books I might start weeping).

There are crap movies in any genre, for sure, but at least there’s a bit more diversity out there - different sized budgets playing around with different ideas in one genre, which is the way it should be. I’d like to see a few small budget fantasty movies have a crack, or just something that doesn’t have dialogue that reads like it was written by two fifteen year olds playing Dungeon Siege 2 while they do it. Or something that didn't give me a mental picture of the writers shrugging and saying to each other "well, that'll do: it's only men aged 15 to 45 who are going to see it anyway".

So long as fantasy movies remain bogged down in the middle of the road the genre as a whole will continue to be lambasted by people who’ve never read some of the great fantasy books there are around. Seriously, dudes, give it a chance. Together we can banish lines like "tonight... we dine in hell!" from the world forever.

Quotable Quotes: Notes from the Underground

"It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything."
(Dostoevsky, Notes from the Underground)

Night of the living pumpkin

I have something of a minor phobia about going to parties where I'm not sure I will know anyone.

This goes doubly if I'm expected to deviate from my normal wardrobe of... black stuff.

Some people might say this is ordinary behaviour (nobody likes to make small talk with strangers) while others might blame my occasionally crippling shyness or a personality defect.

Personally I blame my childhood. And one incident in particular.

When I was about 10 (or possibly 11 or 12) I was invited to a friend's Halloween party. This particular friend was older than me in more ways than one. She and her other friends, for instance, had already grasped the idea that the purpose of fancy dress parties was to make yourself look as hot as possible.

Accordingly they went down the 'sexy goth witch' route almost to a girl (or boy). I, meanwhile, was struggling along in my pre-teen way, amusingly supposing that the purpose of fancy dress parties was to wear a kick-arse costume.

And I dressed accordingly.

As a pumpkin.

There was nothing sexy about the giant orange shirt I filled with stuffing before cinching in somewhere around my waist, nor the snug footless tights on my bottom half. Even less provocative was the green ice cream container I wore on my head, with a single green felt leaf flapping sadly off one side.

I did look a fair bit like a pumpkin - that much was true. Certainly I drew my fair share of glances as I breezed into the party, momentarily confident for about as long as it took me to look around. To my credit, despite my innocence, I realised almost immediately that I had made a false step when I saw the other slutty-sexy costumes in my vicinity. Then again, more or less anything looks sexy by comparison when it is standing next to a pumpkin. It didn't help that I was still waiting for that growth spurt and was centimetres shorter than anyone else I saw that night.

Other than my friend I did not know a single one of the people crowded into her backyard and, with two feet of padding around me in every direction I wasn't feeling incredibly chatty. Nor did any of the strangers seem particularly interested in passing time with what they presumably assumed to be an orange helium balloon let loose in the house.

I spent my time trying to look as inconspicuous as a walking, talking vegetable can look.

There was only one up-side to this mortifying experience and, as silver linings go, it was pretty lame. But, because almost nobody had any idea who I was, where I had come from or what I was doing there very few people appeared to notice an orange blur flying in the direction of the door when the first game of spin the bottle was proposed. Though some long-time residents of Subiaco still swear they can remember the night when a five-foot pumpkin ran past their house, leaving only a green felt leaf and a lingering scent of vanilla bean in its wake.

Just don’t ask me about event horizons

This month I am attempting to both read and understand at least some sentences in A Brief History of Time. It’s one of those things I’ve always wanted to do and I’m sure if I looked hard enough I could find this particular ‘to do’ item sandwiched between ‘learn another language’ and ‘finish novel’ on any to-do list written by me in the past seven years.

So I am trying and I think I’m even understanding some of it (it’s about physics, right?) but more fun than reading than reading is looking at pictures. Like this one:

It’s pretty amazing to think it’s an actual photo taken by the Hubble telescope and it does sort of semi-inspire me to get back to the book and attempt to read another chapter …. Oh, who am I kidding: another page. Anyway, it makes me feel like I'm learning something, even if it's just honing my googling skills.

He's pushing 55 if he's a day...

I’m not sure what most amuses me most about this spoof Ridge Forrester website.

Is it the biography which includes a section for “crimes committed” or the bit where he apparently “unintentionally raped” his on-again-off-again wife?

Perhaps the fact that he was supposedly in his 30s when the series started and is now merely limping through his (he wishes) early 40s...

Maybe it’s just the memory of sick days on the couch watching Bold and the Beautiful when Mum and Dad weren’t home and marvelling at my ability to keep up with what was happening despite not having watched the show since my last sick day two years earlier.

Oh wait I know what it is: the realisation that the person who created it has even more time on his or her hands than me. Hurrah.

Token Smokin’ Hottie: Pete Doherty circa 2003/04

I know. I know.

I started you off easy with Clive Owen and Wentworth Miller, throwing you hot, nuggety chunks of James Franco and all the moody, broody dark-eyed stares you could handle.

You blinked twice at Peter Saarsgaard but you could take it. After all at least he wasn’t a total junkie with an apparently constant greasy sheen on his mug, constantly snapped falling tits over arse or injecting some poor groupie, right?

And now.

Yep I do think Pete Doherty is hot. Please, allow me to explain.

Granted he is a junkie and probably has more drugs pass through him than your average meth lab.

Granted too that his approach towards hygiene appears to be… hmm, I think “English” is about as close as I’m going to get to a euphemism.

Granted further than a variety of facial sores/weeping wounds frequently appear to be on his face and granted still that the boy seems like he could be a bit of a spanner every so often.

But.

Firstly he was a member of The Libertines, absolutely one of my favourite groups of the past five years or so. Really quality. Before he was famous for being a smackhead and dating Kate Moss he was actually famous for being super talented.

Secondly the boy is kinda… sweet. He makes me want to put him in a bath and wrap him up in a fluffy towel. The guy could walk into your house with a needle in one hand and a 14-year-old groupie in the other and you’d still introduce him to your Mum because he would sit down and have a cup of tea with her.

Okay so he’d then shoot himself up with the gram in his pocket and get a blow job on the stairs but we all have faults.

Thirdly, despite how messed up he has become since his prime he still seems like a gentle sort who’d be a happy drunk and would at least have the good grace to pass out in a pile of his own vomit instead of mugging old grannies for their spare change.

Fourthly, he once quoted Siegried Sassoon at an award ceremony. I'm a sucker for a boy who likes his poetry.

But all this is irrelevant. Because this token smokin’ hottie entry isn’t really about Pete Doherty today at all. Because, Kate Moss aside, nobody really wants to go there these days.

I am not a great fan of Pete Doherty circa 2007 but I am a fan of Pete Doherty of 2003/2004.

When he was all hot onstage ho-yay with band mate Carl Barat.

When he appeared on the cover of Esquire and GQ dressed in a Savile Row suit and looking a million bucks.

These days, most of the time, you wouldn’t get change if you used him to buy a coffee.

Nevertheless. I do still cling to some faith that this little English muffin, assuming he gets his drug habit under control, reunites with former bandmates, reforms The Libertines and moves to Perth, could get it all back together again.

And if not, at least I’ll always have the GQ cover…

What I implied to others that Andy and I would be doing on our week off and what we actually did...

What I implied:

• eat awesome food and drink good booze.
• see plays and art exhibitions and have intelligent discussions about them afterwards.-read intellectual books and discuss Proust.
• rediscover Perth.

What we actually did:

• eat awesome food and drink good booze.
• lay on couch and rewatch BBC’s Pride and Prejudice (sorry Kym).
• purchase RPG computer game and play until 2.30am. And repeat.
• rediscover our mutual love for laying on couch watching movies and playing computer games.

It was awesome.

As some of you probably know next week Andy and I are having a Holiday In the City. It’s one part ‘too poor to go away’ and another part ‘who needs to go away anyway?’ but I’m rather excited about it.

Sadly I think my excitement has actually grown since poor Andy hurt his leg. Now struggling on crutches I sense that his disability (through tragic, obviously) will mean I can stop pretending that I have any desire to fill the coming week with the kinds of activities that I see rugged looking people wearing cashmere sweaters over their shoulders doing in adverts.

I will be perfectly happy not hiking through the woods, going rockclimbing ordoing any of the sickeningly energetic things I feel I ought to pretend to like. I am crushed that I can’t go horseriding, because it’s been ages, but then you can’t have everything.

In horseriding’s place I get to have long lunches, boozy dinners, lying on a rug at the park and reading pure trash, lying on the couch and watching pure trash, taking hot baths in the middle of the day while reading pure trash and listening to Andy tell me I’m turning into a prune.

In short: I intend to get away with moving as little as possible and, when I have to, to do so with a drink in my hand. It will be awesome.

I have a house!!!

Okay, perhaps I should clarify: Andy and I have a house.

By which I mean we have a house to rent.

By which, in turn, I mean, we are renting Andy brother’s (and his girlfriend’s) Northbridge apartment for 9 months while they prance around South America.

But nevertheless - this is progress.

The only question left to answer is whether I’ll miss my parents’ frequent day and night time skinny dips more than I’ll miss Dad yelling at me for leaving my shoes on the dinner table.

I’m still waiting to break the news to Tikki - even if Kate and Jerm were cool with her shedding her fur all over their carpets, which I assume they are not, I’m not sure she is up to another move. But at the same time my heart breaks a little when I think of leaving her home with Mum and Dad and the gruesome hounds of poodle doom.

Then again, though she is a fabulous cat with a lovely nature (ahem) she isn't necessarily the sharpest knife in the drawer...P’raps I’ll just erect a few pillows and a wig beneath my blankets for 9 months and hope for the best. Hey, she’s a cat: she knows what it’s like to love your sleep…

I find it immensely satisfying when I turn out to be right.

On those rare occassions when a hunch of mine pays off or I win a bet (thankYOU imdb.com where would bet-settling be without you?) I do not respond with a gracious smile. In fact I am more likely to indulge in the universal 'i told you so' dance, possible accompanied by a merry jig and a shit-eating grin.

And now one of my long running hunches - that Andy is in fact a total sook - have been almost fulfilled. For dear Andy has stuffed up his knee quite badly and is now an invalid. And not the stoic kind.

But this time I'm not doing the merry jig of smugness, nor even really belting it out when I come to the difficult bit in the 'i told you so' chorus. I haven't matured or anything but it has occurred to me that Andy's tendency towards laying on the couch and being tended to while demanding colder frozen peas, stronger pain relief and less rank-tasting water makes my own ability to wallow in self pity and make increasingly pathetic demands as soon as I have the hint of a cold look slightly less-pitiable by comparison. Or so I tell myself

Quotable Quotes: Rushmore

"Maybe I'm spending too much of my time starting up clubs and putting on plays. I should probably be trying harder to score chicks. That's all anyone really cares about."(Rushmore)

This is more or less what my red hair looks like...

... it is also a disturbing glimpse at my future offspring after I'm forced to mate with a bug-eyed alien to re-populate the (semi) human race.

Calm down, ladies, it may be Stella McCartney but it's still Target.

Fool that I was I imagined that breezing into Target at 8am this morning would mean a leisurely morning before a late work start to peruse Stella McCartney's new "Target range". I imagined a peaceful start to the day, culminating in me smugly walking out with my new black camisole and cashmere coat before all but the most eager fashionistas were out of bed.

Sadly this was not to be.

Instead I had to witness the sad spectacle of people (okay: girls and women) running towards the racks, pushing past people and knocking them into racks as they did so. Seriously. I felt embarassed as I made my own way to the racks and started thumbing through them in search of my size. Not embarassed enough to snaffle the last size 12, obviously, but, you know, embarassed all the same.

Similarly the sight of women stripping down in public instead of lining up for a change room was all a bit too much that early in the morning. Is anyone really in that much of a hurry? Plus, as Judd pointed out, you can always return it if you got it at Target.

One of the most telling things I saw was women excitedly grabbing at clothes on racks, only to discard them when they checked the label and saw they were part of the not-so-stellar range. (Yes, that's right: Stella/stellar... you see what I did there?) There was definitely a sense that a lot of people were there to get a little piece of something they couldn't usually afford, not because they gave much of a toss about the clothes. I'm not saying I wasn't one of those people but then I didn't imagine for a moment that rack of cream coloured faux-jeans was Stelle McCartney either.

In the end I walked away with nothing. Sadly this is not because I expressed my disgust with the scene by stepping down or taking a stand but, rather, because I discovered only while in the fitting room that the sizes were way too big and some bitch pinched the last size 10 camisole from under my nose. Now her I could happily push into a rack of clothes any day of the week.

Hair truths.

I can't remember (and I'm too lazy to look to up) who it was who said there are only two emotions in an airplane: boredom and terror, but I feel the same sentiment can be applied to a trip to the hairdresser.

There is nothing relaxing about this experience. There are the long stretches of time in which you do nothing but leaf through magazines, starting off with the semi-juicy ones and ending up with the crap ones nobody buys with lots of pictures of women pouting and no text. Then there are the terrifying moments where you feel you've made a huge mistake or you glance in the mirror and see a look of what you imagine is mild concern on your hairdressers face.

In fact, it occured to me as I sat in a hairdresser on Saturday for an excruciating three and a half hours that having a haircut is like competing in a bloody triathlon.

The first event is the difficult task of bridging the gap between what you want and what your hairdresser thinks you should have. This usually consists of me struggling in with a picture torn from a magazine. This, I tell my hairdresser, is what I want. Red hair like Maggie Whatshername. She produces a colour sample. It is brown. I wave the picture. She produces another sample. It is brown. I point to the picture and then to myself. She points to the colour sample and then to my hair. It's a delicate duet. Sadly this is my weakest event as I frequently cave to my hairdressers demands once she subtly and sweetly points out that ripping off a supermodels hairdo won't actually make me look like a supermodel but giving me a style or colour that suits me might stop me from holing up in a French church somewhere.

I can usually gain ground in the next event, however, which is not engaging your hairdresser. I don't imagine that anybody who knows me will be particularly surprised by the fact that I do not like to talk to my hairdresser while she is cutting my hair. I want to sit quietly, drink my glass of complimentary booze and read up on 10 Tips to Get Thighs Like Charlize Theron. My hairdresser, however, wants to chat. More specifically she wants to chat about My Life, with subjects ranging from what-I-do to what-I'm-doing-that-night. Although these conversations may ostensibly be about my life they usually include frequent references to her own, often with colourful (if seemingly unrelated) anecdotes about her love life thrown in.
I am not a horrible person and I don't begrudge my hairdresser her obvious desire to pass the time with some chit-chat but I will protect my right to sit in total silence too. A magazine or book is a must, obviously, and eye contact is strongly discouraged. Never answer a question with a question and never answer a questions using more words than she used to ask it: these are my secrets.

Despite what is something of a natural ability at this event, deflecting the well-meant chatter of someone with a pair of scissors in her hand can take it out of you. So that by the time I reach the final event - pretending to like your hair, regardless of whether you do or not - I am often struggling. The thing is that most of the time I do like my hair. I've had only a few truly shocking cuts in my lifetime. But regardless of whether I'm planning to go home and cry or go home and prance in front of the mirror my reaction feels just as phony. No matter how many times I smile and say I love it I feel like a have to do more, particularly if the hairdresser is a fawner and insists on prompting me for a further reaction. My face muscles start to hurt from holding a rictus smile on my face for half an hour but I can't stop grinning. "I love it, thanks" I say, again and again and again. Still my hairdresser will insist on gathering a consensus from the other hairdresser present. Amazingly they seem to love it just as much as she does every time.

So I'm thinking about going red.

I mean I like my brown hair, I think it suits me fine and I'll probably be happy with it for the next 30 years or whatever but it might be time for a change.

It's not going to Run-Lola-Run red but more Crazy-Kimberley-From-Melrose-Place-Who-Freaked-Me-Out-When-She-Pulled-Off-that-Wig kind of red. I think.

As always, when faced at the prospect of making what I sadly consider a dramatic change I am paralysed by doubt and have taken to questioning both friends and strangers on whether I am Doing the Right Thing but, who cares, I'm pushing ahead with this one. See you on the other side...

UPDATE: Yes as most of you know I did go ahead with it. In the end I was talked into a browney red colour that looks maroon in the dark and flame red in the sun. I think I like it. And, yes, MJ, I will try to post a pic on here, or at least email you UK fools one.

If were in a movie...

• I would be the main star’s best friend.
• I would be a lot funnier.
• I would give sage advice instead of cribbing from Cosmo and Dr Phil.
• I would be really smart because I own a pair of black-rimmed glasses.
• I would end up paired up with the only other glasses-wearing dork onscreen.
• I would probably have a better wardrobe.

The perils of drunken text messaging.

I am a terrible drunken text messager.

Terrible, terrible, terrible.

Or, to put it another way, if you think sending someone a message saying "you smell like my cat's skin disease" is ever a good thing, I am a very very good drunken text messager.

I don't know what it is. Put a drink in one hand, a phone in the other and leave me alone at the bar and within two minutes I'll have either offended or propositioned the entire contents of my phone book (yeah sorry again about that, Dad). At the time, of course, it entertains me and passes the time while waiting for the next daquiri but in the cold hard light of my hangover the next day I've got to say it has usually lost a lot of the hilarity.

And it's got to stop. I can handle alienating friends, co workers and family but I'm churning through the phone bill like nobody's business. I've bonded with the guy on the Virgin help desk because I have to call up every two months to be reconnected thanks to my extreme non payment of bills.

Case in point: today I was separated from my mobile for about 10 hours after a night out on the turps. When I returned... 9 text messages, 7 missed calls and half a dozen voice messages.

And I'm really not popular, it's just when you send people messages like "you smell like poo and wee" (yep these are the jokes, people) they tend to get back to you. Even if it's just to offer to drive you to rehab.

Quotable Quotes: Fame

"If I didn't care for fun and such
I'd probably amount to much.
But I shall stay the way I am.
Because I do not give a damn."
(Dorothy Parker)