Quotable Quotes: Belle and Sebastian

"We lost a singer to her clothes.

My trouble raised it's ugly head

It was revealed and I was home in bed

I was a kid again."

(Belle and Sebastian)

Supposing romance is pants.

I feel sorry for Andy sometimes. Considering how much I love reading and writing stories about miserable people in miserable relationships and that sort of thing I fear I must give the impression that he beats me or puts out cigarettes on my arms or something.

I fear also that I am in, in fact, deeply cynical about love and romance. I think a lot of what gets tossed around in popular culture is bunk. I do think people can make a relationship work long term and part of me aches for the kind of Paul Newsman-whatsherface 50-year romance but I'm also not convinced monogamy is the best thing in the world. I feel there has to be another way but I don't know what it is and most of the books, movies and TV shows in my life are apparently more interested in peddling me cliches than giving me anything to work with.

That's probably why I like this (somewhat old) blog by The Guardian's Charlie Brooker. I think the title - Supposing... It's time to smother romance in its sleep - says it all (sorry for the length):

"Hands up anyone who's had a great experience with romance. Now put
your hands back down and stop lying. Romance never works. Romance never does
what it says on the tin. Romance, ultimately, is bullshit.

If I sound jaded, it's because I am. I'm so sick and tired of love and its pitfalls I can scarcely lift my fingers to type. If love were a product, the queue at the faulty goods desk would stretch right round the universe and back. It doesn't work properly. The seams come apart and it's full of powdered glass.

Each fresh romance has two potential outcomes: 1. One of you falls heavily, and quickly, until this helpless, unattractive neediness sends the other running for the hills; or 2. by some miracle, your desperate neediness levels balance out, and you stay together for several years - until the love between you withers and dies, at which point one or both of you will stagger away, howling like a wolf with a hook in its gut, wounded beyond reason.

When you're smitten, romance is a thrilling high-wire act over a looming lake of woe. Your head's full of music; the first few steps are a joyful scamper. Then the skies darken, the breeze picks up, the tightrope shudders and you fight to retain your balance. In your heart of hearts, you know you're heading for a tumble, but you're out and exposed and there's no turning back - and who knows, maybe you'll make it? Imbecile. Of course you won't. Instead, the rope snaps and suddenly you're plunged back into the monochrome work-a-day reality of flowers in the dustbin and dogs
being sick on the pavement.

At this point, wandering in a post-romantic shock, things get even worse. Being numb and distant somehow renders you magically attractive to others. It's sod's law in action, and before you know it you're abusing the privilege. Hungering for another go on the tightrope, you hurl yourself at the nearest admirer, but since the love
canary's recently flown your cage, you're selfish, robotic, and doomed to wipe your arse all over their soul. Congratulations: you've become an emotional vandal. And
you'll do it again and again until you meet another special someone - only this time
the tightrope's higher up and more precarious, and you're so scared of falling that
your feet shake the moment you step aboard.

On and on and on it goes, and there's no end to it. This madness must be stopped. We can medicate depression into oblivion; why not romance? A preventative tablet, perhaps, or an adhesive patch that suppresses the relevant endorphins, which you can slap on your skin at the first sign of attraction, killing romance dead, stopping you in your tracks before you make a fool of yourself or a hapless Aunt Sally of another. And sizzled on the back of every packet, embossed on every patch, just to keep things melancholic and swoonsome, you'd find the last line from Graham
Greene's The End of the Affair - the battered protagonist's final plea, which
sums up the absolute aching awfulness of romance so eloquently it makes your
heart nod along with tears in its eyes: "O God, You've done enough, You've
robbed me of enough, I'm too tired and old to learn to love, leave me alone
for ever." Anyway. Next week: some jokes."

Token Smokin’ Cutie: Lilly Allen

I know some people find her annoying or whatever but I think Lilly Allen is cute as a button.

This particular photo comes courtesy of a certain website I’m embarrassed to frequent which allows viewers to make a comment about what celebrities look like. Intellectual stuff, obviously.

What makes me really angry is that some of the comments were calling ol’ Lilly chubby or overweight or fat. Obviously she’s not Hollywood skinny but she looks great and healthy but hot, I think. I also think there’s something really sick with society if girls look at these pics and think ‘I wouldn’t want to be that fat,’ which is what many of the comments amounted to.

I’d kill to have her wardrobe too.

In Other News...

I know the whole skinny models debate isn’t a black and white situation but this story from Rome does make me think there is at least the possibility for change. I know I’m dreaming but it would be really nice if we could have hot girls who don’t look like you could snap them in half on the catwalk one day.

Meanwhile, High Court judge Michael Kirby makes a good point that discrimination is still very much alive and well in that his partner won’t get jack when he dies because he is gay. Interesting but as usual the comments left on the Perth Now website are mostly pure rot, though highly entertaining.

This one comes courtesy of Stew Rat, who is still trying to save my soul, apparently.

What his parents save in cash he loses in schoolyard beatings, no doubt.

My lovely sister Ruth bless her, receives regular emails from a little group called Simplesavings.com.au.

The group, which basically consists of regular emails advising readers how they can save money around the house, is frankly quite pitiful.

But every so often it throws up a real gem, which Ruth passes on to me and which, to me, which makes the entire thing worthwhile. This one, received today, is actually on a par with a previous ‘hint of the week’ classic involving the story of the mother who, instead of buying her son the Spiderman costume he desired, wrapped him in a garbage bag and gave him a ball of wool in place of the more traditional ‘proper costume’ and ‘working web’.

Read on…

"From: SimpleSavings info@simplesavings.com.au
Subject: Simple Savings: Hint of the Week - July 6Date:
7 Jul 2007

KIDS CAN MAKE THEIR OWN TRADING CARDS

We are saving up to $10 a time on trading card games for my eight year
old son! He is very much into trading cards like YuGiOh, Transformers and so on but these packs cost anywhere from a couple of dollars up to $10, depending on the pack sizes and so on. As you need in the vicinity of 40 cards to play these games, it soon gets pricey! So instead, we encourage him to draw and he comes up with some incredible characters and ideas which I use our digital camera to photograph, then load them onto the computer.

We then locate websites, of which there are many, to locate templates for these style of cards. We load his drawings into the templates and apply skills and actions with appropriate points onto the card and save them. When he has devised a game plan, we can print out as many cards as required, with some spares for his younger brother. If the cards get scruffy from over playing we reprint; laminating also can prolong life. This is a great exercise in planning and making them come up with new games and ideas and they end up with cool personalised trading cards. Hours of fun are spent designing our cards.

The only cost is time and a dollar or two spent printing - it works out even cheaper if done in black and white, which can be coloured in. Another activity perfect for rainy days, and as for spending quality, creative time doing activities together? It's priceless!"

Knocked Up

Babies and sentimentality are both pretty gross. And yet, for a movie with both Knocked Up is pretty fucking funny. I saw it last night and I don't think I have laughed at a movie so hard since watching the "Oh are they?" scene from Rushmore for the first time.

That could be because it's got a very amusing script and great acting or it could be because I'm a sucker for an absolute Freaks and Geeks reunion, with Seth Rogen, Jason Segel, Martin Starr and James Franco. Either way it's very entertaining and shows up other comedies in the R-rated vein up as sub-par by comparison.

Plus I would reconsider my no-babies rule for Paul Rudd in a second if the opportunity came up (seriously dude- call me).

Bulls 1 Humans 0

I not-so-secretly relish it when humans get nailed by animals they are trying to hurt. So the news that about 100 people were injured in yesterday's first bull run of the season on Pamplona doesn't exactly sadden me. I know it's tradition (so was slavery once upon a time, I'm just saying) and blah blah blah but the fact is that the humans taking part in the event have chosen to be there for one reason or another, while the bulls, who have no choice in the matter, are shit scared and running towards their death in the bull-fighting ring. The whole thing is just rank.

Parents never really stop looking after their kids. At least mine don't. If my mother isn’t loading me up with wholesome food or my Dad isn’t trying to lend me money then they’re offering to have my car detailed. No really.

Okay so technically this was a birthday present offer and my birthday is still a few months away but I’m pathetically excited.

The thing is that, as many of you probably know, I don’t particularly care for cars. While Al and Jade talk about this car or that car or wax or polish their own I take a nap or lapse into a day-dream about Hugh Dancy. If I’m ever witness to a crime and have to describe a getaway car I will not be a star witness so much as an embarrassing boob who can only say that it was “sort of blue and shiny”.

In the three plus years that I’ve had my beautiful 1988 Ford Laser (in a Granny-appropriate beige) I have never had it serviced or allowed a mechanic within spitting distance. Even when I was in a five car pile-up about a year ago, resulting in the back of my car getting smooshed in, I just patted the old girl on her behind bought some screws to reattach the numberplate. My door handle fell off about three months ago but instead of replacing it I have continued to unwind the window and open the door from the outside every single time I need to get out of the driver’s seat.

Yes I am lazy but part of it comes from complete indifference. In theory I love my car but this is entirely because I have anthropomorphised it to hell and not because I care for cars, per se. So my excitement at finally giving the beast some tender loving care is a bit of a surprise to me. It’s not something I could justify spending money on myself but the prospect of having oil replaced, spark plugs tightened(?) and mufflers um whatevered is a nice one.

Up until this point I’ve sort of assumed my car would die on the job, like an old workhorse dropping dead in its traces. Now, however, it’s become a matter of getting her through the next three months to give her a chance at a life-saving operation.

Hence my new policy: no driving unless strictly necessary. I am already walking to and from work and I’m sure I can eliminate unnecessary grocery trips by shopping at the uber dodgy Asian “supermarket” down the road which stocks twenty different types of noodles but no bread and prefers to peddle a suspiciously vague “soy drink” rather than anything resembling milk. Similarly I will have to cut all my long-distance friends out of my life and restrict my extra curricular activities to laying on the couch and/or walking across the road to Tarts. On the plus side I can be permanently drunk because I will never have to drive myself anywhere. On the downside Andy might kill me when he realises he has become my own personal taxi service.

The countdown has begun.

"I am a parcel of vain strivings tied

By a chance bond together,

Dangling this way and that, their links

Were made so loose and wide

Methinks,

For milder weather."

(Thoreau)

I was going to post about my weekend in Margaret River, spent with a decent amount of wine, food and friends.

There were a few things it crossed my mind to post about - how enough wine can make even a bus load of strangers into friends, how awesome I am (shut up) in coming up with celebrities for impromptu games Celebrity Heads or the extremely random moment on Saturday night where I thought I could hear the thoughts of the other people at the table (um… yeeeeah).

But I feel like a big bag of shite and I can barely string a coherent sentence together. It’s not booze related for once but I feel as though my head is going to fall off if my brain doesn’t explode out through my mouth first. I’ve never been a person who gets sick that much, which may be why I hate, hate, hate it so much - the loss of control, that hideous cold shaky feeling that accompanies it and the moment of realisation that, no, two panadol and a cup of hot tea just aren't going to be enough this time.

Somebody stick a fork in me: I’m done.

'Excruciating-pain-red is such an attractive colour for an older bunny...

Animal testing has always been a tricky moral area for me and something that other people seem to like arguing about with me, for some reason. Obviously it’s easy to oppose testing cosmetics etc on cute little beagles or bunnies (seriously ya’ll: unless your shampoo/mascara/lipstick says animal free it was probably squirted into the eyes of something cute and fluffy so you shouldn’t buy it) but opposing research to find cures for fatal or debilitating diseases is a lot harder. This is quite old but I missed it the first time around and it gives me hope that we might all be able to have our cake and eat it too.

I won't stalk you... unless you want me to...

If I have to read one more story about how great it is that Kate Moss has (again) purged he of the greasy hair and facial sores out of her life I will staple my hand to my forehead. I am a long-time supporter of non-junkie Pete Doherty and I live in hope he is attempting to clean up his act and take on another Kate in his life. Either way, these pictures of his stuff being moved out of her house make me a bit sorry for him.

Word of the Day: Guido

Definition: A sad pathetic excuse for a male; not necessarily of Italian descent, but most likely.
Wardrobe: tight zipper shirts, tracksuits, designer jeans, fuzzy kangol hats, tiny hoop earrings, fake gold chains, and related Euro-trash garb and tacky cheese-wear.

Natural Habitat: Known to frequent malls looking for club gear to waste their week's pay. During the day when not at their food delivery/telemarketing/construction job, can be located at their local gym tanning or lifting weights. Can be found nightly at mainstream dance clubs they read about online

Genetic Links: Directly related to modern day urban-guidos, A.K.A. "wiggers," A.K.A. "wegros;" urban-guidos are white males who once exhibited the traits referenced above, but have now instead opted to keep it unreal, with wardrobes consisting of clothes from labels like FUBU and Rocawear which they bought on sale.

Recreational Activities: Guidos enjoy beating up a non-white or homosexual while assisted by a group of 5-10 guido friends backing them up; engaging in date rape and displaying their lack of rhythm by dancing poorly in the middle of a club's dance floor while non-guidos look on in disbelief.

Courtesy the Urban Dictionary.

A Rant, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Be a Bitch.

Just over a year ago, as some of you know, I was having a rather horrible time of it - one of the all time low points in my life. It was shit, I was miserable and, as you do, I started making plans to change my life. So it was around about then that I vowed to be nicer to people, value my friends more, not bitch about the incompetent, annoying or different quite so much. I would say I’ve had some success on these fronts. Sort of. But it’s a moot point because it all ends here. I can’t take it anymore.

Because you are killing me.

First of all: shut up. Just shut the fuck up. You do not need to have an opinion on everything and you do not need to be involved in every conversation taking place in a ten kilometre radius of you, especially if what comes out of your mouth is raw sewerage. Some things aren’t about you. Sometimes you can just keep your gob shut and listen to other people without saying anything. Sometimes you need a smack in the mouth.

Secondly, if you’re going to involve yourself in every conversation anyone has ever had then at least have an opinion - a proper opinion - and stick by it. Having an opinion does not mean immediately changing your mind as soon as someone disagrees with you, or creeping around and agreeing with everyone, no matter how contradictory their opposing views may be.You are a creep. And it is driving me mental.

Thirdly, stop forwarding on bullshit emails and for the love of god stop signing them in that certain way you do. You know what I’m talking about. No I don’t care to reflect on the (allegedly amusing) ways in which men differ from women when it comes to (oh you’re going to love this one) cleaning the house or having sex or what-ever. Whacking an emoticon and/or a series of exclamation points at the end of an (alleged) joke does not make it amusing or new or interesting. I don’t care. Just because some poor miscreant has passed these pearls of wisdom on to you is no reason to inflict them on the rest of us.

Fourthly… your voice really annoys me. I know it’s not your fault but it does.

Fifthly… you chew too loudly.

Sixthly… your hair looks like a toilet brush.

Makes sense to me.

Religion is for dumb people who don’t sweat the details, but if you have to choose why not go for one of those Southeast Asian ones where you get to dress like a banana king and live till you’re 100 years old?

See more Vice Dos and Don'ts right here.

Quotable Quotes: Jean Rhys

“I am sad, sad as a circus-lioness, sad as an eagle without wings, sad as a violin with only one string and one that is broken, sad as a woman who is growing old.” (Jean Rhys)

Define "respect".

So Bush pretty much doesn’t care how corrupt and fucked up he looks now, right?

I mean I’m just checking.

He has now stepped in to get the man convicted of obstructing an investigation into why a CIA agent had her cover blown suspiciously soon after her husband publicly criticised the Iraq war out of jail.

His explanation?... “I respect the jury's verdict. But I have concluded that the prison sentence given to Mr Libby is excessive."

Hmm. Bush could pretty turn up to a press conference and eat a live baby at the podium and I would neither gain nor lose any more respect for him.

Tokin Smokin' Hottie: Prince Zuko

There are many disturbing elements to my crush on the fictional cartoon character of Prince Zuko - one of the key players in a nice little series Andy and I have become hooked on: Avatar: The Last Airbender (which, incidentally, is exactly as nerdy as it sounds).

Let’s start with the fact that he’s only 16-years-old. Hmm, legal yes but still highly concerning. Technically he should still be at school and that is just wrong… I’m not helping anyone with his economics homework and I don’t care how much he broods at me.

Moving right along… he’s a cartoon character. Yes, I know. I haven’t fancied an animation since Trent in Daria (shut up - I was young. He was a hot drawing) and even then I knew it was weird. But is it really any weirder than lusting after some image you have of an actor purely through seeing his movies? Well yeah it kind of is but, eh, what can you do?

On the other hand, the fact that his character is semi evil might be seen by some as a negative thing but I’ve always been a fan of damaged goods. Sure, sure being all tortured and stuff might be a cliche but it’s a cliche for a reason - it’s sort of hot, particularly if they can rock a huge, hideous scar and a series of slightly dodgy hairstyle as well as this dude can.

In real life, of course, he would drive me mental with all his ‘it’s complicated - I can’t talk about it’ bullshit and his constant flouncing off into the night but on-screen it works and he is, without a doubt, a token smokin’ hottie.

(Meanwhile some of you, Johnsy in particular, should check out the series if you’re into that sort of thing. It’s super addictive and it gets really good).

Five moments while watching the Transformers movie where I either rolled my eyes, nudged Andy or coughed “bullshit”.

1. When the allegedly-hot-but-really-very-annoying love interest suddenly revealed she was some kind of greasy monkey engine expert. Dear writers: If you are going to create some cliched wet dream character please at least tell the make-up artists to ease up on the bronzer - by the final scene that bint looked like a glazed ham.*

2. When the hot army dude who (of course) had a wife and newborn baby at home waiting for him stops to held some poor little Arab kid. We get it already damned-pro-Iraq-war- propaganda writers.

3. Every time the “scientists” or whatever they were broke into fake technobabble. It’s time to hack the mainframe.

4. When the main kid and his love interest made out on top of a car, despite knowing it was a transformer. As Josh pointed out later it’s about the creepiest threesome ever.

5. At just about every other point during the movie.

*Glazed ham joke was shamelessly ripped from TwoP, who memorably referred to David Boreanz's (increasingly porky and fake-tanned) Angel character as a glazed ham in a trenchcoat.

The horror, the horror

I've spent the day battling with a hangover and still found time to post photos from last night. What a trooper.

UPDATE: Lindsay has also put a whole lot more up here.

Diary of a Hangover: the live blog

7.00am: Wake up. Feel surprisingly okay. Realise I am still drunk. Drink water.

8.15am: Get up for more water. Floor is weirdly sticky. I have a cut on my finger. Don't know how either happened.

9.30am: Go looking for food. Find breadsticks - take them back to bed.

10.15am: There is construction work going on outside the apartment. Fucking construction work. At least I think there is - the pounding may or may not be in my head.

11.30am: Move to couch, stepping on broken glass in the process. Eat giant bowl of chips and lashings of hot tea. Feel slightly better, then a lot worse.

12.30: Attempt to load drunken photos from previous night onto blog. Fail. Repeat. Try to convince Andy to clean the house while I lay on the floor. He ignores me. Repeat.

2pm: Down painkillers, water and diet coke. Start cleaning the house. Items found in the living room: broken glass under the coffee table, a single sock, two cigarette lighters.

2.05pm: Return to couch to recover my strength.

4pm: Feeling significantly better. House clean. Must now prepare to go out tonight and repeat.

"Let's build a snowman..."

As I type this post I am watching the trashorific Earthsea – a fantastically enjoyable straight-to-DVD adaptation of some of my all-time favourite books. The DVD was a surprise present from a certain friend of mine and it’s awesome - in all its on-again off-again acting, low-fi approach to special effects and shameless scenery munching.

In honour of this movie I have taken a trip down memory lane to visit some of the best so-trashy-they’re-awesome movies of all time: the kind you might push to the back of your DVD collection but which secretly get more air time than all the rest put together.

And where to start but with…

Roadhouse.
The concept: Patrick Swayze plays the second best (I know, I know) bouncer in America who is recruited to whip a tough-as-shit club into shape. Now if that doesn’t sound awesome to you then I want to know who you are and why you’re reading my blog because this is one of the all-time 80s classic trashfests.

Cannibal
This little musical gem from the guys who made South Park is an acquired taste. Marty and I have laughed ourselves into a coma over it but of the many other people I’ve forced it on.... um, well the reception has ranged from cool to frigid. Granted it is occasionally boring, unfunny and tedious. The rest of the time it is fucking hilarious. Highlights include the “Let’s build a snowman” tap dance, the ‘Indians’ who are quite clearly Japanese and, again, the goddamn snowman tap dance. Unbelievable.

Bring it On
The moist, dripping eyes of Jesse Bradford, the semi-lame acting of Dunst and the turtleneck-wearing-boyfriend? Fab, fab and more fab. Luckily this one has become so popular among a certain set that it’s quite socially acceptable to be caught watching it.

Glen and Glenda
Though not as good as the movie made about Ed Wood, this film’s universally damned director, this movie gets me every time. It’s just so… weird and done so painfully on the cheap that it’s fascinating to watch. Plus the clothes are surprisingly cool.

Weekend at Bernies
Oh Come on – you've all seen it and you know why you love it just as you know why it sucks. But, my god, what a concept.

Commando
An Arnie film that works on so many levels. Oh wait I mean it just barely works on one but it kicks all kind of arse. Worth watching for the line “time to let off some steam, Bennett” alone.

I’m sure there are dozens I have missed out… any suggestions?

I wish I was here...

... ok it doesn't even have to be Glastonbury. Just somewhere other than Perth, where fun goes to die.

I have a serious case of envy sparked this week by a conversation with friend and former UK housemate Nick about our various plans for the next few weeks.

I’m flying to Belgium for a festival, he said. He then proceeded to rattle off the most impressive music line-up I’ve ever heard. I think I blanked out somewhere in the middle but I distinctly remember Air, Bloc Party, Arctic Monkeys, Razorlight, Snow Patrol, Cold War Kids, The Kooks, Kings of Leon, Bjork and The Bravery (and I’m not even mentioning Pearl Jam, Metallica, Muse, The Chemical Brothers or Faithless because I’m not a huge fan).

What about you? He asked me.

The best I could come up with was that Xzibit is coming to Eurobar. Jesus.

If he's wearing a cardigan under that jacket I'm actually going to have to force him to marry me.

A little piece of Alley Cat's heart (along with every able-sighted girl's or boy's) has been broken today. Though perhaps she should celebrate because, if he's going out with some girl who is potentially wearing a table cloth over her shirt, Wentworth Miller's standards can't be that high. I'm also intrigued by the fact that she's carrying another jacket and how she proposes to put it on over said tablecloth. Then again if I was going out with an uber hot Princeton English graduate I'm not sure I'd be worrying about putting my clothes on either...

In her dreams, obviously.

It is a question that I get asked a fair bit: why write a blog? The real answer is that I'm a self-involved narcissist in love with the sound of my own voice, or rather the sight of my own writing, obviously. But the latest arrival to the blogging bandwagon, Jade, has a much better response: to eventually have sex with George Clooney.

You are getting very sleeeeppppyyyy

F. Scott Fitzgerald once said that the worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not be able to and last night, as I lay awake in bed, listening to the sweet strains of what was either late night construction work or my neighbour dismembering a body with a chainsaw, I thought he had a bloody good point.

When I was younger I had real problems with sleep - I would lie awake for hours just staring at the bunk bed above me, bored and anxious and knackered but unable to drop off. At the time I fantasised about moving to a part of the world where it was light for half for the year, thus (in my mind) negating the need for sleep during those months.

Hopefully it’s not necessary to add that I don’t feel quite the same these days, or at least my grand plans are a tiny bit smarter. I do still have a slightly unhealthy relationship with bedtime and resent the demands of my quickly-tiring body but, generally, the bed and I get along quite well. I may still not be a huge fan of the need to go to sleep but imagine the alternative: a world without sleep.

Even were such a thing physically possible I think a lot of people would go mad. And probably pretty quickly too. In theory, of course, we could all get a lot more done if we didn’t have to spent 6-9 hours tucked up in our doonas but sometimes a little sleep is exactly what you need. Drifting into a (possibly drug-fuelled) sleep when you’re ill feels fantastic because all you want to do is get out of your wretched body for a few hours. Similarly, on the worst of bad days, imagine crying yourself to sleep… only to not go to sleep at all.

Total pants, I say, so we may as well enjoy what we have - even if it does involve long nights sometimes and the terrible feeling of still being awake at 3am and knowing you have to get up at 6am. To either the hard work construction dudes or my murderous neighbour I say: please, please shut the fuck up.

This is the winner of the latest series of America's Next Top Model...

...Uh what a hottie. And what fantastic curves, I mean bones.

The Beautiful and the Bland

Attraction is such a funny thing. I know there are all sort of theories about why we find certain people attractive - facial symmetry, genetics etc - but sometimes I just find it so... strange.

On the one hand there are people who are almost universally attractive. I know they're not for everyone but there are people like Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, etc who seem to be considered attractive by a pretty high proportion of people. Similarly there are some people who are probably considered universally unattractive - the man who regularly sleeps outside and occasionally masturbates near the Northbridge Re-Store, for example.

But even though there are these people who are widely considered very attractive or unattractive there are still huge variations between what individual people find attractive. The lovely Jade and I both worship at the altar of James Franco, for instance, and have similar taste when it comes to hypothetical hotties, including Ali’s incredibly-hot-friend-whose-name-I-won’t-mention-here-lest-it-be-used-against-me. But when it comes to real life boys we are in no danger of chasing after the same one. Similarly, I have a fair bit in common with most of my close friends but none of their boyfriends are my type (no offence to Cam/John/Shaun etc as you’re all lovely) and I'm sure it's a case of visa versa.

I quite like the idea that a person's genetics can motivate them to choose a partner best suited (genetically speaking) to them and the future survival of their progeny. It makes some sense and it's got a certain appeal to it somehow. The theory breaks down, however, when it comes to a certain pair of twins I know who have very different girlfriends. Granted, the girls do share the same name but, in appearance and personality, they are very different. Maybe at a molecular level they have a certain similarity but... eh, I doubt it (what do you think Kate #2?).

Surely some of what we find attractive or unattractive is to do with society and what images we get told are 'beautiful' or 'attractive'. But, then again, if this was entirely the case we'd all be going after the same person which, as I say, is sometimes the case but not always.

I don’t really have a conclusion to make here or a hypothesis to put forward - this is just me musing on why I can find Jonas Armstrong so delectable but be left cold when it comes to the masturbator down the road or, if you prefer, someone like Matthew Mcconaughey who many seem to like but who I find about as attractive as a tree.

I suppose it is a good thing that there is still some mystery about why we fancy the people we do. Falling in love would probably be less fun if you knew it was the product of biology or social conditioning. I’m very grateful, too, that people do have different likes and dislikes when it comes to partners. Otherwise we would probably all be going after the same people, meaning, for a start, that I would have a lot more competition for Cillian Murphy’s affection than I do right now. Because, clearly, I'm well and truly in the running for that one.

Something's afoot here.

Jesus, this story makes me simultaneously shiver and feel somewhat relieved that I am sufficiently wussy that Bounty's Revenge is about as wild as I get...

Be careful what you blog, little grasshopper...

...Perth is much, much smaller than you think.

I must learn to think before I blog. As Andy reminded me today this is a public forum where, potentially, anyone can read my posts.Because I think of myself as blogging for the people who I know who read this, as well as for my own enjoyment, I've got into the foolish mindsight that this is my little domain and I can control who reads it and what they think about it. This is very wrong.

For a start, the young whippernapper Tom O'Mahoney I raved about in yesterday's post? Is a family friend. We caught the bus together as kids. Random yes and now I feel dirty - I knew him when he was still in short pants.

Secondly, I've removed a certain post from a few days ago about a certain incident and the night of the UBD. Basically I fear the persn involved will read what I wrote and be hurt by it. I have no intention of censoring myself in the future or re-writing blog history but I also have no intention of hurting this particular person, who I love to death.

Thirdly, dear reader(s) a future warning not to take offence at anything I may write here. Being a writer by personality and profession I too often write before I think but I never mean to offend and every so often something that seems very benign or funny in my head might look very different on a computer screen. I'm full of shit is what I mean.

Anyway, lesson learned. In Perth it is more like two degrees of seperation and you should always assume every person you've ever known could be reading this over your shoulder.

Although the Blackadder episode where Edmund has a cloak made out of cat fur is still hi-larious...

I know that news of the EU banning cat and dog fur trading isn’t quite the biggest victory ever, so far as stopping animal cruelty or the fur trade goes, but it’s still fantastic news. At the same time it does make me a teensy bit sad because, and I’m not sure if it’s just my impression or not, but it always seems to me that Europeans just care more about things than Aussies - they’re always having protests or writing petitions and things really do change. I know I’m as guilty of apathy as anyone else but it’s depressing not to see more Australians (including me) stand up for what they believe in.

Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love

It's a pretty rare thing for me to go to a performance of any kind with no expectations. Because I am naturally curious and have no patience by the time I get to the theatre or cinema I have usually read reviews of the show and googled it sufficiently that, if I haven't actually spoiled the ending for myself, I've at least gained a pretty good idea of what to expect.

Last night was an exception as Lindsay and I trotted off to see the WAAPA production of Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love. Despite Lindsay having (allegedly) written a story on the production neither of us had any idea what to expect, other than the promise of full frontal nudity.

That was how we walked into the wrong theatre.

"It looks like we've wandered onto the set of Fame," Lindsay said as we sat down. Indeed it did. Dancers limbering up on stage? An orchestra tuning up for... something? Schoolchildren in the front row? "Surely this is a bit risque for kids?" I said, feeling about 105 years old as I said it. Lindsay didn't answer because she had just caught a glimpse of our neighbour's program. We were in the theatre for a WAAPA production of West Side Story.

A few embarrassing minutes later we were in the right theatre for the right show, debating whether or not we would have run out when the overture started and the strains of Maria brought the truth home to us.

The very idea of drama students irritates me. I didn't particularly care for the drama crowd at school and that distaste has always sort of stuck around with me. Pretentious wanks, I like to call them, until such time as they prove themselves to be otherwise. So, nudity aside, I was prepared to be coldly indifferent to Human Remains. Instead I found myself drawn into the story - which was basically about relationships with a little serial killer action on the side - almost immediately and, much to my surprise (disappointment?), the acting was almost universally very good.

The guy playing the main character David (Elan Zavelsky) was just amazing and surely destined for future good things, while the guy playing his friend Bernie (Jai Courtney) was great in an unforgiving role. The chicks were all okay but nothing special (god I'm cruel to my own sex) and I've saved the best for last because the blessed playwright or perhaps the director managed to create a character just for me in the form of Kane (Will O'Mahony... call me) who not only sported the particular brand of scruffy con-wearing boy I love but did a pretty job on the ol' acting front too.

Despite the occasional dated feel of a few of the verbal references (the original play was written in 1989) and the odd bit that grated here and there I thought the whole thing was incredibly engaging and very well done. The show ends on Thursday, June 21 (as in tonight, unless any of you are up late and reading this, in which case... um that's weird but nice) and is really worth seeing if you're into that sort of thing.

The neighbours later congratulated her on narrowly avoiding a mugging...

Rest in peace my little blog entry... Sadly this post has been deleted in what I hope is the first and last case of self-censorship. Sometimes it is not worth hurting someone in order to tell a good story or make a joke. I will still do the rounds with this one at parties but not in print where it will come back to bite me.

Quotable Quotes: David Sedaris

"I'll never understand why someone might pay me to wear a corporate logo. To me, all such shirts read 'All my other clothes are dirty' or 'Until which time, if ever, I develop a personality of my own, this t-shirt has offered to speak on my behalf'." (David Sedaris)

TV Dreams

In many respects I had a much easier time growing up than my siblings. As the youngest of three by the time I was ready to be moulded and shaped my parents, bless them, had either lost interest in crafting their offspring into the future leaders of Australia or had become disillusioned with the whole process.

Not only was I allowed to have my ears pierced, drink and have boys over at a considerably earlier age than either my brother or sister, but I distinctly remember my brother bitterly recalling that, for his Year 12 ball he had had a curfew of 12.30 (half an hour after the ball ended) with strictly no drinking, while the rules for me consisted of a half hearted suggestion that I should probably be home by 2am and shouldn’t really drink too much.

When it came to one thing, however, my parents were stricter than most people’s I know: the bloody TV. Whether I was rationed three hours a week or half an hour a night television was always a precious commodity. Each potential program had to be weighed against what else was on offer and watching a movie would mean three days of no TV at all. At the time I assumed my parents were malicious bastards. These days I assume they just wanted us to grow into literary giants or come over all Tom Sawyer and start whitewashing a fence or something but the long term impact has had the unwanted side effect that I still view TV as something of a wondrous commodity.

Being allowed to watch as much TV as I want, whenever I want and whatever I want is still a bit of a strange feeling for me. Like somebody who grew up in a famine and feels the occasional need to binge I still sometimes have the urge to park myself on the couch and make my way through the channels with complete disregard for what is on.

This has caused some tension in the household because Andy was raised with a much more laissez faire attitude. The result is that, while he will only turn the beast on to watch a particular program and doesn't really like to watch it much at all unless he's into a series, I will frequently flick it on just to make sure I’m not missing out on anything, as though some almighty deity might have programmed my favourite shows back to back and then forgotten to tell me about it.

Strangely enough the TV shows today seem to be a lot shitter than when I was growing up. Not that I would know. The thing is that, when I wasn’t allowed to watch TV everything sounded like some amazing secret I would never be let in on. I would hear people talking about 21 Jump Street (a show I was never allowed to watch under any circumstances) and want to weep with envy. The half hour of The Simpsons that I didn't see was always better than the half I did see. At least I pretty much assumed it was. These days I can watch all the 21 Jump Street I want (hey, I have the DVDs) but, Johnny Depp’s cheekbones aside, it’s only just bad enough to be funny. You only want what you don't have, I suppose.

I suppose also that whoever-it-was was right when he said you can’t go home again but sometimes it would be sweet to go back to a time when everything on TV was a fantastic half-hour secret just waiting to be discovered. Sitcoms were one moment of high-larity after another and there was no better way to waste an evening. At least as far as I knew.

Token Smokin Hottie: Gilbert Blythe

Oh Gilbert.

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who have seen the award-winning series Anne of Green Gables mini series (circa 1985-1987) and those who have not. And I have yet to meet anyone in the former group who has failed to fall in love with Gilbert Blythe.

No, not the actor who plays Gilbert but the character himself. The actor who plays the character may be as physically cute as Gilbert but no real life person could ever be as adorable as Gilbert because, you know, he’s a fictional character. This is the only explanation for why someone as smoking hot as young Gil - all corkscrew curls and impish grin - spends five-odd years loyally mooning after Anne in the way most people like to think somebody could possibly moon after them. Yes Anne is feisty, smart and very cute but in reality it’s only the creeps who stay madly in love with you for years from afar and then it’s more of a “stalking” relationship than an epic romance.

Admittedly I was a biased young viewer when I first fell in love with Gilbert. As a bespectacled nerd I thought he could have been speaking directly to me when he said that being smart was better than being good looking. At the time it seemed perfectly logical to me that the only thing standing between our love was the fact that he didn’t technically exist. Other than that we were clearly soul mates.

I wished I could be the one pressing a cool cloth against his fevered brow while he was potentially dying of scarlet fever and, even though I wanted him for myself, I cried like an absolute woman when Anne repeatedly shot him down in flames and broke his little paper heart in two.

And did I mention that he wears three piece suits through the entire series? Snug, snug three piece suits. Obviously I’m not the superficial type but for those people who don’t agree that being smart is indeed better than being good looking… well, um, you know he uh, he looks pretty good. Every boy should invest in a personal tailor that freaking good is what I’m saying. Even if you are into brains.

Hotties? Notties?

What with the poo well and truly hitting the fan in Palestine there is really no better time to think about the big issues.

This is a serious blog and a chance for us to explore world events and put together some insightful commentary on the world around us.... Like People magazine's top 10 bachelors.

Oh yeah because you didn’t know that was coming, what with the picture of Adrian Grenier and all that. Anyway. Mathew Fucking McConaughey is number one. My god - again? I mean, really? I respect a man who plays the bongos naked while blindingly stoned as much as anyone but McConaughey is about as blandly attractive as an old piece of leather in a bathing suit. You couldn’t call him ugly but I’ve been looking at a photo of him for about 30 seconds and I’ve fallen asleep twice... But then check out the competition. I mean Grenier is a hottie, that’s why I’ve put his picture up here and Jake Gyllenhaal is pretty easy on ye olde eyes too. And okay so I guess some people might like to break themselves off a bit of Justin Timberlake (*yawn*) or that dude from Fantastic Four who isn’t Hornblower (What. Ever) but… this guy? He’s really the 9th hottest bachelor in America? So he’s um, he’s actually attractive? I see. Interesting... Well what about this one? And honestly... this one?? Are people getting uglier or am I just really, really picky? Because, um, I don’t think I am but I wouldn’t brake if I saw some of these dudes crossing the street. In front of my car. I mean I would run these bitches down. You can see the full ten here...

UPDATE: The spacing is all fricked up for some reason so the text has gathered together like some gisgusting gelatinous blob o' crap. Sorry. I've gone a bit crazy with the bold text to try and break it up a bit. It uh, yeah it hasn't really worked.

Hey look at what the newspaper is saying...

I was going to post something about today's story about WA's first gay adoption (er the parents are gay, not the baby obviously) but Dan's already gone and done it. I'm torn between feeling really chuffed that this first step has taken and being filled with fury at some of the disgusting ignorant and ridiculous responses to the news. In the spirit of getting some work done, however, instead of posting angry responses to some of these tools (yes I did crack and post one but just one I swear) I'm going to take a deep breath and say kudos to the State Government, the DCD, the couple and the Mum involved. And I might write a letter to the editor just to try and get in before some of these dickslaps do. But um probably just one.

I Dream of Meanie(s)

Dreams are a funny old thing in that there is nothing more dull than listening to someone else’s dream but every time I have what I consider to be an “interesting” one I feel the need to tell people about it. Many people. In great detail. Despite the glazed look in their eyes.

The problem is, of course, that it is exactly the same things that make the dreams so “interesting” to the people having them that makes them so boring for others to listen to - they don’t make any sense...

“And then my arms sort of became flags…”
“Became… flags?”
“Yeah, yeah and so…”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Oh I know but it sort of did at the time.”
“Riiight…”
“Where are you going? You won’t believe what happened next…”

Last night I had a dream that my mother was trying to kill me. The entire family was in on it and holding me hostage. I had to keep making excuses to go the toilet and fishing my mobile phone out from my boot (where I had hidden it) to text my friend and get her to call the cops. For an unknown reason all the action also took place at my friend’s new house in Leeming.

This would be a bloody fascinating story if it had actually happened. I mean, I’m pretty sure that if my family did try to murder me a few people would be keen to hear the story. But as a dream? It’s not much of a story. How do explain to someone else the chilling way my mother explained to me that I had to die when it’s all my my mind? I just can’t and there’s no point anyway because nobody really cares about other people’s dreams. It’s sad but true.

And I’m just as bad. I have a real tendency to tune out when I hear about people’s brushes with their subconscious the night before. My attitude is that, unless it actually happened or the person involved in a psychic I don’t give that much of a toss. Oh unless it involved both me and James Franco obviously. In that case full details and a few illustrative sketches are encouraged.

Quotable Quotes: The End of the Affair

“I sat with the telephone receiver in my hand and I looked at hate like an ugly and foolish man whom one does not want to know. I dialled her number. I must have caught her before she had time to leave the telephone and said: ‘Sarah, tomorrow’s all right, I’d forgotten something. Same place. Same time. And sitting there, my fingers on the quiet instrument, with something to look forward to, I thought to myself: I remember. This is what hope feels like.”

(The End of the Affair, Graham Greene)

You can read the full entry at the CNG Lending Library blog.

Why aren't you reading this blog instead of mine?

Why you should be at I Watch Stuff.com:

“This trailer (for 30 Days of Night) reminds me of a disturbing trend in the modern vampire: too many are willing to run around mad for blood, openly showing they're mutant vampires. What ever happened to your gentlemanly, Dracula-style vampire? It's like the new vampire is a rapist, while Dracula was more of a date-rapist. Both are going to attack you in an unwanted way that will leave you violated, but at least with Dracula you get the seduction.”

I Propose a Series of Experiments to Test the Theory

Scared tourist #1, whispering: Did that crazy guy just say his dick was bigger than my heart?
Scared tourist #2, whispering back: I think he said his dick was bigger than yours.
Crazy guy: I said my dick is bigger than your heart.

--A train
--Overheard by: Mike
From Overheard In New York.

A third hand story for your interest...

Feeling a bit harassed at the weekend I rented a hefty stack of DVDs. Instead of pursuing that impossible dream of finding something Andy and I both fancied I just went (more) selfish and followed a mental list that would have robbed me of any arthouse credibility I ever had (I’m just saying, Camelot, was featured. Yes the musical version. It is awesome.).

Also included was the documentary The Celluloid Closet, which is based on a book that looks at the representation of gay and lesbian people and relationships in Hollywood movies. It was much more interesting than it sounds. Anyway, I was quite captivated by what Gore Vidal had to say about Ben Hur and thought I would pass it on as it tickled my fancy.

Basically Vidal (who was the movie's screenwriter) claimed that he convinced the director to have an (unmentioned on-screen obviously) back-story involving a gay relationship between Ben-Hur and his old friend Messala to add more emotional intensity to their scenes. According to Vidal the director said "well it's better than what we've got" but said they would only tell the dude playing Messala and not Charlton Heston because he wouldn't go for it.

The result was - again this is all according to Vidal - that Heston played it straight as a childhood friend while the other guy was in on it, all brooding glances and fierce forearm-grabbing. I'm not sure if it's Vidal's obvious delight at telling the story and hoodwinking Heston or Heston's air of homophobia when he denied Vidal's claims but the whole idea amuses me no end. I hope it's true.

Splits Update: Still shitting myself.

I have discovered a small flaw in my plan of achieving the splits by the end of the month.

I am a lazy bint.

For the first few days after I made my decision to institute this plan I was semi-gung ho - all stretching exercises by the bed in the morning and poo-pooing Andy’s concerns about the effect that trying to split myself in half could have on a body that has been, at-best, under utilised in recent years. Ten days(ish) later I am no closer to my goal. The ‘stretching exercises’ now consist of sitting on the carpet with one leg in front of me, pretending to reach towards my toes while watching Robin Hood and wondering if Jonas Armstrong would go out with me if I dressed like Maid Marion.

I have also been struck down with a shoulder injury that sounds like it should have no bearing on my ability to complete leg exercises but means I can no longer support myself on my hands or even extend my arm to touch my toes. It has also had the side effect of making me feel very sorry for myself and more liable to curl up on the couch than even bother changing in my ‘exercise pants’.

This is not quite me throwing in the towel. It is more my desperate bleat of fear that I will just not be able to do it. When I first had this idea I thought it seemed ambitious but quite achievable. Today it seems so far out of my grasp that I feel I would have been better served vowing to stop drinking diet coke or learn calculus by the end of the month. I am, as many of you know, prone to extreme competitiveness and I hate to fail even these arbitrary self-set challenges. But I have never been a huge one for physical challenges and, in recent years particularly, I’ve never had to push my body particularly hard for a long period of time. My mind I can handle but I’m beginning to suspect my body resents me for treating it like shite for so long.

I really don’t want to fail at this one, though, so my back-up plan is to get very, very drunk and just force my legs to do it, hoping the booze will numb me against the pain. So ,er, if one of you could just put the ambulance on speed dial before I attempt it that would be great.

Celebwatch: The Owen Wilson Trajectory

I've thought more than once about blogging on a little thing I called the Owen Wilson career trajectory. It's an interesting phenomnon to see a once funny, smart and highly crushable actor gradually circle the drain of mind numbing medicority.

But why would I tell you about this when I fear someone else may be able to do it for me. Over to you Mr Steve Carell. Oh okay shut up, I'm not saying he's there yet but I'm slightly chilled by the fact that he is starring in the coming sequel to Bruce Almighty - Evan Almighty - a film that, honestly, does not need to be made. (And yes I know this casting news has been out there for ages but, you know, I'm pretty busy and important).

To most people not acquainted with The Daily Show, Just Shoot me or, you know, Curly Sue, Carell came on to the radar with Anchorman - an overrated but pretty funny movie.He cemented his position with the highly amusing 40 Year Old Virgin and the pretty well acclaimed American series of The Office. (I haven't personally watched it because Ricky Gervais will always be David Brent for me but I hear almost only good things.)

I think Carrell plays very well as part of an ensemble cast, even when he's in a leading role, but I have borderline grave concerns about what will happen now that he seems to be moving into that territory where his movies are "the new Steve Carrell" movie rather than anything identifiable or memorable. For instance: in 40-YO he had the inestimable Paul Rudd and that other guy from Freaks and Geeks to play off - In Little Miss Sunshine he got to be the dark humourist in an otherwise slightly sickly sweet story. In The Office I assume the quality of the ensemble is as good as the UK one, which is a leg up indeed. In Evan Almighty I imagine it's just going to be him and... well, hopefully more laughs than the first installment.

Carrell should take a good, long look at his ol' pal Will Ferrell who is currently locked in a death grip with Owen Wilson to see who goes down the plughole first. (Ben Stiller, meanwhile, is looking on from a distance and preparing to fight the winner).

The Owen Wilson trajectory (or Will Ferrell trajectory if you like)has followed a different course for these two actors, probably because they both took different routes to success - one via Saturday Night Live and a series of slightly mental roles; the other via some work on-screen and behind the scenes on some cult, borderline under-the-radar movies. Wilson will forever be my Butterscotch Stallion for his work with Bottle Rocket, Rushmore, The Royal Tenenbaums and (shut up) Shangai Noon (I said shut up: you know you loved it too).

I have considerably less love for Will Ferrell but he was great in Zoolander and um, you know some other stuff. These days Ferrell is cruising on a series of increasing "zany" and "mad-cap" roles in decreasingly less funny movies. Wilson, too, is looking increasingly depressed and depressing with middle of the road stuff like Wedding Crashes, Shanghai Knights and Cars and the downright shite like Around the World in 80 Days, You, Me and Dupree and Night at the Museum.

For me, Carrell is taking the first step towards this slow death by mediocrity by agreeing to be in a sequel with the basic premise of 'let's try to milk the dead cow'. I'm not saying it's time to sound the death knell for Carell yet (I still have hope that he and Wilson, in particular, can get it together and team up for something awesome) by any means.

But I am waving the red-flag and calling him in for a pit-stop, some refuelling and a tough talking to.

Things I have learned while watching Pirates of the Carribean 3:

• Most, if not all, Asian people are evil, stupid and probably want to have sex with all white women.
• A theme park ride may give rise to one good movie but not three.
• Orlando Bloom is hot (again) when he is not being a total pussy.
• There will be a special place in hell reserved for Keira Knightley.

Ruff Times.

I know I bang on a bit about certain issues, particularly when it comes to animals but this is yet another PSA about why should you all be donating money to the RSPCA.

This little pooch was one of two seized from an Armadale (where else?) couple recently. The couple was fined and banned from owning dogs and the dogs have been happily re-homed. At the time they were sized the dogs were supposedly days away from dying.

Anyway my point is that, without the RSPCA, these dogs, as well as many others, would have died. The RSPCA does a fantastic job with much less government funding than it needs and has to rely on donations and volunteers for much of its work. If any of you are feeling even a little bit flush at the moment or you want to pick up something cute and fluffy for a pet while giving your money to a good cause you can donate or check out the shop at the RSPCA website.

Okay that is all. We now return to our regular program.

I don’t have a huge problem with beauty pageants...

...Oh sure, they’re tacky and sexist but they’re also fascinating to watch and, personally, I figure that anyone who wants to bare the lower half of her buttocks in a risque swimsuit should be able to do so.

But the Miss Earth pageant rubs me the wrong way. In theory it’s nice to have a beauty pageant that combines jail-bait beauties with environmental issues. How can anything that raises awareness of this sort of thing be bad, right?

Well it’s phrases like this, from the official Miss Earth website that grind my gears:

“If you want to be a contestant and you do not have much knowledge of the
environment then we suggest that you read the environmental articles in
newspapers and that you google phrases such as ‘global warming’, ‘climate
change’ and ‘saving energy’.”

Riiight. So it’s not so much about recruiting passionate environmentalists who happen to look nice in a hideous sequined evening dress and be prepared to answer humiliatingly patronising questions - it’s about dressing up a pageant that is just as tacky as all the others with the trappings of environmentalism.

Oh and the pic is a Polish contestant from last year’s competition. Just be grateful I didn’t use the one of an Aussie contestants, greased up and crawling on all fours in a bikini towards the camera. I’m sure Tim Flannery and Peter Garrett have done the same thing many a time.

Reason to be proud to be Australian #36

I should be fired up by our Prime Minister’s view that gay couples should not be able to adopt children. But really who has the energy any more and who does this surprise?

Reportedly Howard has said that having a mother and a father gives children “the best opportunity in life” and that heterosexual parentage is a benchmark we should try to maintain as a society.

A child’s development and happiness is nothing to do with having parents who love them, you understand, or who have the resources to give them a good home, send them to school and outfit them in a variety of natty courdroy overalls. It’s actually all about whether their parents have the relevant bits down there.

But wait, lest you think our country is being run by a complete bigoted dickslap you’d be wrong:

“I'm not saying that gay and lesbian people don't display enormous affection to
children,” he said.

Well thank god for that.

"... and time has been cruel to David Bowie, too."

Okay so I saw this sign on Pamie's site but it made me laugh and imagine the conversations the poor bastards at the video store must have had with customers. A week ago I would have said that only a complete moron or a senile blind woman would fail to realise the movie was Spanish before getting it out but I stand corrected - that guy I blogged about on Monday who said in his rsvp.com profile that he liked to watch movies that had won awards would totally have gotten it out without reading the back.

Normally about here I would go on to make a joke in very bad taste about what he would have done while watching the movie, given that he is single, a freak and therefore probably sexually frustrated as a mule as well as being too thick to read the subtitles... but I've seen the movie and it's lovely and sad and that joke would be very, very wrong. Seriously, this movie will either make you cry or cut yourself. Not do that other thing.

Do as I say not as I do.

A fellow journalist I used to work with had a nice little line he used to trot out when accused of bias.

“I don’t have an opinion - I just report other people’s” he said on more than one occasion.

Technically speaking, as a journalist I report the facts as they are. Of course this is pretty much bullshit because my own opinions and political leanings no doubt contribute to the kind of stories I choose to give more column inches too, and even who I think to contact for certain stories. But in theory I like to pretend to be neutral.

That all ends now because if a certain recently-announced mayoral candidate for the City of Perth wins the seat I might have to kill myself and then him. Probably not in that order.

I don’t loathe local government in the way that some people do and I wouldn’t like to see it done away with and replaced by a two tier system. I think there is a lot of wankery that goes on with councils and much unnecessary fricking around but I actually think they play an important role too.

This particular councillor also plays an important role: he is a tool. If he’s not eyeing up the reporters at council meetings to make sure they’re taking down each pearl of wisdom he is vomiting out then he’s turning up at the opening of the proverbial envelope and glad-handing everyone from acquaintances and fellow big wigs to the complete stranger who just held the door open for him to be nice.

Say what you want about Nattrass but I quite like him. At the very least he has a genuine wish to do the best for Perth and a decent vision for how that can be achieved. If it came down to a choice between this anonymous candidate and a cat with a bucket on its head I think the cat has more vision.

Quotable Quotes: Rushmore

Max Fischer: I like your nurse's uniform, guy.

Dr Peter Flynn: These are O.R scrubs.

Max Fischer: Oh, are they?

(Rushmore)

Lately I’ve been browsing rvsp.com.au

This is not because I’m looking for a little something on the side but because a couple of friends have been talking about it and the nosy parker inside me was curious to see how people market themselves. Checking out profiles has been surprisingly fun and addictive and, even more surprisingly, most of the people seem completely normal and occasionally hot. Personally, as someone who would rather make awkward conversation via email than face to face any freaking day of the week, the whole concept is something I think I could get well behind.

But some people reeeally need to work on their profile just a little bit harder and think about what sort of a message they’re putting out there.

First up Mr Pretentious: when you say you like to read Friedrich Nietzsche I do not think you are intelligent, philosophical or deep. I think you are a liar.

The same can be said of the dicksnap who claims to watch only independent documentaries for entertainment. Nobody’s impressed, you tool – they’re just thinking what a boring fucking date you would make.

But to give Mr Documentary his dues at least he has picked a lie and gone with it. Far worse are the people so bland that they come up with likes and dislikes like this:

“I like my movies and I don’t have any real preference to a favourite. I like
watching anything, especially if they win awards.”

Jesus, could you try and be a little bit more bland? Why not just say ‘I like other people to tell me what I should like and then I like that’? Because a certain sort of girl could really get behind that.

Meanwhile the guys who put up photos of themselves shirtless should be rounded up and executed. If Perth girls are looking for self-obsessed tools who spend their weekends at the gym (sorry Dans and Thom) and probably wank in front of a mirror they can head to the Subi on a Friday night.

Lastly, a word to the man whose profile appears to consist entirely of Simpsons quotes? Weell okay I kind of liked you. Though I disagree with your assertion that you cannot make friends with salad.

At the risk of sounding like a smug bint...

...For the first time in awhile I am quite creatively excited. Lindsay and I have embarked on a nice little project that could turn into something. (And, worst case scenario, possibly alienating a long list of colleagues and bosses in the process). In all likelihood it will fall by the wayside or end up on the backburner, like many previous such attempts in other areas, but for now it is exciting to be interested in writing again. And taking the piss out of the lamer aspects of my job does make it that much more palatable.

I’ll take e) No non-whites here thanks.

I know it’s stating the obvious but what a rort this proposed citizenship test is. Honestly.

The Perth Now website has a list of (allegedly) exclusive questions from the proposed test and some of them are disturbing.

I think everyone living in Australia should take an interest in our history and cultural customs but this shouldn’t be a measure of whether people are allowed to stay here and call themselves Australian. I’d like to see some of the dickwads already in the country to have a crack at it. No I don't think the tools we already have should be kicked out of the country for their stupidity per se, I just don’t think that potential citizens of the country should be judged by such a ridiculous arbitrary and useless list of questions.

Who gives a fuck whether ice hockey or cricket is a popular sport or what animals are on our coat of arms? What do these kind of questions, which can be learned by rote, say about the people of Australia?

Personally, if I had a choice, I’d like everyone who came here to be kind, compassionate, left-wing animal lovers but I wouldn’t support a test even if it catered exclusively to my particular prejudices because I hate the very concept of nationalism.

Australia needs people who vote conservative and people who vote small-L liberal. It needs people who want to work hard and make money and people who don’t know what they want to do. I feel very lucky to have been born into Australia but I detest many of the things that my country supposedly stands for. As far as I’m concerned Australia needs new blood and I don’t want that new blood to be determined by a list of questions determined to get a certain type of person in and keep others out.

Plus some of the questions are just pants. Exhibit A:

Which of the following are Australian values?
a. Men and women are
equal
b. `A fair go'
c. Mateship
d. All of the above

If the question was “which of the following are regularly touted as Australian values by political leaders who want to convince us they’re not racist bigots but just lovely, kind people, even though they totally aren’t,’ then it’s easy. As it stands it’s an absolute embarrassment and a joke.

And now for some cross promotion...

Awhile ago I blogged about how great it is to have that moment of recognition when you see something of yourself in someone else.

My lovely friend UK friend Bec personifies this. A fellow Television Without Pity nerd and Ho-Yay enthusiast I am frequently flooded with nostalgia for London every time I stumble over something so trashy and fantastic that I know that she alone would appreciate.

She’s also much funnier than me so you should all be reading her new blog.

It's life, readers, but not as we know it.

The argument about life beyond Earth had always been a little bit academic to me: yes, I think it probably does but who cares as we’ll never know kind-of-a-thing.

But some pretty new research has really excited me. Apparently another 28 planets have been spotted outside our solar system, bringing the total to more than 200.

Most interestingly researchers say they are seeing more habitable planets that could support life.

“We are beginning to see that our home is not a rarity in the universe,” said
Geoffrey Marcy, a professor of astronomy at the University of California
Berkeley, who led the team.

It will probably never happen in my life but the possibility of discovering intelligent life on other planets and finding out what they know and what they are like is just amazing.

Of course once they see what we’ve done to our world they might not be so keen to be Best Friendz 4 EVA.

I'm intrigued by this sign...

Splitsville

I have embarked on a mission which could well be the death of me. In a futile bid for self improvement I have recently started setting myself mini goals. Previously I have had year-long goals, the most recent of which I’m proud to say I did achieve in the end. This year I’m thinking short term. And this month I’m thinking the splits.

I used to be able to do the splits, once upon a time when I wore leotards and had the physique of a harp seal pup. That time has long since passed - the flexibility at least, if not the physique. These days, although I do make some claim to fitness, there is a difference between being able to manage the walk back from the corner deli with a bag of croissants in my arms and being able to put my legs out to ridiculous angles for no apparent gain. But this month, or rather next month, it is game on. I have started my stretching exercises and I vow that by the end of June I will have done it or died in the attempt.

Anyway, if anyone else has a goal in the making let me know what we might goad each other on, possibly while listening to Eye of the Tiger and jogging along in matching tracksuits.

The Swedes know what they're doing.

What is there to say about Ikea that hasn’t already been said?

The cretinous children who scamper around you as you try to buy a fucking saucepan, putting their sticky fingers on everything when they’re not having a screaming tantrum or blowing their noses while mere feet away from you.

The inane muppets who insist on walking in front of you at a speed approximating a senile Aunt looking for a place to die.

The ridiculous queues at the checkouts inevitably caused by some tool who doesn’t want to pay $8.99 for a disgusting crocheted placemat when the sign clearly said $9.88.

I loathe the place. But, of course, I love it. I am like a beaten girlfriend when it comes to Ikea. No matter how many times I leave the store in a rage I always go back.

‘Never again,’ I say to myself, as I swear loudly about the ridiculousness of having priority car parks marked ‘family’ as though you need to have dropped something out of your uterus to park within shouting distance of the door.

Has anyone ever come out of Ikea happy? I mean, really? I went there yesterday on my day off, officially in search of a saucepan and a cutlery holder. I came out with a large wooden plate and a photo frame. Seriously. I don’t know what happened. I want into an Ikea coma as soon as I stepped into the homewares section.

Half the problem is that everything is so cheap. Too cheap. I could spent $8 on lunch without blinking so why shouldn’t I spend it on some natty colourful shoeboxes that I really feel would help me sort my life out, really get it all together? And, sure, all my previous attempts at creating harmony in my wardrobe have failed but surely this is merely because I have lacked the proper tools to really get things in order...

And I think that that, right there, is the reason why I, among others, keep going back. I hate what Ikea stands for just as I hate the experience of being there but I love the feeling of hope that fills me as I browse through throw cushions. Nowhere else quite caters to the consumer experience in the same way, offering me a little peak at what my life would be like if I could just have a special place to put my pashminas, a better system for storing my DVDs or more time to really get at the grout in the corner of the bathroom.

Of course I don’t have any of these things and probably never will. On the plus side I do have a pretty fetching wooden plate and a photo frame I don't really care for.

Sorry this will put most of you to sleep but...

...I am out of the loop. Absolutely out of the bloody loop. I have completely failed to blog about a fantastic little event that took place in the music world about six weeks ago. Why did I fail to blog about it? Because I didn't even know it happened until today. Frick!

Anyway the event was a nice little reunion onstage between Pete Doherty (more widely known as the junkie twat who goes out with Kate Moss) and his former bandmate Carl Barat (known by me at least as one hot tamale). These two were the lads behind British greats The Libertines - a group which really deserves all the absurd praise that gets heaped on them regularly (although NME sometimes takes it too far - I fear they were probably wanking at the bar during this latest gig). The group's break-up, in particular the break-down of the relationship between Doherty and Barat was bloody and well documented (borrow my book! Pete robbed Carl's house! Carl sent Pete to jail! excitement, intrigue and hot gypsies!) so this reunion is a huge thing for big fans of the group.

I am one part overjoyed at the possibility of a Libertines reunion (next step: ditch the Moss) but one part devastated not to have been there. And definitely weirded out that I didn't know anything about it until today. God I miss London. Alright sorry - but just look at the pictures: they're so very cute... (see also my latest addition to the RHS column in the form of You Tube madness for more Carl and Pete action).

May Audit

I am currently: Nursing a terrible hangover and swearing to give up the booze.
I should be: Sticking my head in the toilet. Oh or doing some writing.
Last good deed: Cleaning the house. Not that I get any fucking credit.
Last bad deed: Being too hungover to drive to the RSPCA this morning. I still love you Mr Frisky!
Last good interview: Animal rights author Jeffrey Masson. A lovely guy.
Next big story: Hopefully one Lindsay and I are chasing up.
Next month I hope to: Do the splits.
I am reading: Pat Barker's Regeneration. I can't usually stand books set during wars (don't ask) but this story follows poet Siegfried Sassoon and is fantasic.
I am listening to: I can't get The Zutons' Why Won't You Give me Your Love out of my head.
I am dreading: Bad news.
I am looking forward to: My next diet coke.

Half Nelson

I’m not sure why I enjoyed the movie Half Nelson (which I saw last night) so much.

For a start I don’t like children and this involved a bunch of them. Also, drug-fuelled orgies aside, nothing much actually happened during the movie.

But somehow it was really enjoyable and I walked out of the cinema feeling as though it had had an effect on me. Afterwards I thought about why this was and I came up with this: as disturbing as it sounds I think I just like watching fucked up people on screen.

I don’t mean people from the wrong side of the tracks fighting overwhelming odds to, I don’t know, go to college, get into dance school or snag the hot, upper class girl/guy. I mean normal(ish) people who are fucked up in a normal(ish) way, often making stupid decisions and just generally disillusioned with the way their lives have turned out.

I’m not sure this says about me, other than the fact I am clearly a bit fucked up, disillusioned and probably making stupid decisions that get me nowhere.

Of course Ryan Gosling looks pretty hot with some stubble so maybe I'm just easy.

Chimpanzee that

Today the news came in that two of the largest American chimpanzee labs have shut down (citing “financial difficulties”). This can’t be a bad thing but it is very, very sobering to remember there are still thousands of chimps in laboratories across the US.

These are labs are performing traumatic tests on animals thought to share at least 94 per cent of our genetic make up. They can laugh, solve problems, learn sign language and make and use tools in the wild but we seem to think it’s acceptable to keep them in tiny cages and use them for experiments for our own ends.

For anyone who is interested the Release Chimps website has some great and horrible stories about chimps that have been rescued from labs. They also have a petition going.