Carrion Laughing

The Most Nerdtastic Tee Ever Created

2006-09-01T09:31:00.000+10:00

A good friend going by the moniker of astrocave has designed a delightfully nerderific t-shirt on Threadless.

If you are:

- A Doctor Who fan
- In possession of a sense of humour
- Any friend of mine

You would be wise to hurry along here and vote for him so the t-shirt can get printed and adorn the chests of happy geeks all the world over. Me included.

Quickly - only four voting days left!

Tip: "5" is the highest score. It took me about ten minutes to work that out.

wub

2006-07-11T08:25:00.000+10:00

If the excitment of Federal politics gets a bit too much for you today, you might want to take some time out to see this.

Oh to be a fly...

2006-07-11T07:54:00.000+10:00

THE Federal Government is in crisis after Peter Costello yesterday contradicted Prime Minister John Howard's claim that he had made no deal about quitting the Liberal leadership.
The Age, July 11

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!*

*Does my obscene level of glee this morning mean I'm an anarchist?

Life on Mars

2006-07-06T09:13:00.000+10:00

I'm cockahoop and doolally for Life on Mars.

Not this:

Or this:

(although I am quite partial)

No. Praise the Gods of Television, I'm talking about this:

Life on Mars is an eight-part BBC drama series from the makers of Spooks and Hustle that will hopefully appear on Australian screens before too long.

I don't usually go in for cop shows (especially not of the CSI: Crimes Against Vaginas variety) but this one is different. If Life on Mars is “just a cop show” then The Singing Detective (1986) was “just” about some crazy old dude with bad skin.

Like The Singing Detective, Life on Mars is dark, haunting, wildly original, and frequently hilarious. It has an unforgettable concept, production values that will knock your woolly socks off, and a magnificent cast who will quickly inhabit your dreams (or am I the only one who dreams about fictional characters?).

Plus the protagonist drives a mint-condition 1970s brown Ford Cortina with a vinyl roof. Hot.

If only the ubiquitous CSI series had less brow-furrowing and voyeuristic violence, and more dream sequences, 70s rock, and mind-bending narrative riffs on the nature of human memory...

I could rant and gush all day but I won’t. I had the pleasure of viewing Life on Mars without knowing a thing about its premise, and you should too. Do yourself a favour and check it out before you read any reviews.

Oh, one last thing. This man (John Simm) plays the lead:

Hot. Hot as guts. Don’t believe me? Then obviously you have not yet had the pleasure of seeing him in action.

Do remedy that, won’t you?

Check back here in the next few days for an investigation into Mr Simm’s ~~bizarre sexual hold over myself and most of my female friends~~ curious magnetism. This hard-hitting Carrion Laughing enquiry (going under the working title of “Inexplicably Irresistible British Man Flesh”) will explore the allure of Mr Simm and his similarly pasty yet mouth-watering contemporaries.

Get Staphed

2006-07-02T18:52:00.000+10:00

The Steph Show

Reality TV program The Steph Show debuts on Network 10 on Friday, July 28. The Steph Show will follow Neighbours actor Stephanie McIntosh as she tries to launch her singing career.

Not to be confused with:

The Staph Show

Reality TV program unsuccessfully pitched to networks by an enterprising microbiologist earlier this year. The Staph Show was to follow the spread of an outbreak of Staphylococcus aureus, or “Staph”, in a Melbourne hospital.

Don’t get confused, kids.

Staph = A bacterium frequently living on the skin or in the nose that can cause illnesses ranging from minor skin infections (such as pimples and boils) to life-threatening diseases such as pneumonia, meningitis, and septicaemia.

Steph = Soap actress and pop starlet wannabe. May cause bleeding to the ears.

By the way, what's with the offputting overuse of airbrushing in the promo shot? I understand the temptation to smooth a little here, define a little there, but the poor poppet's upper lip has been so altered that she looks like another person - and not a more attractive one. Was she riddled with cold sores on the day of the shoot, or could this be an attempt to make Steph look (as well as sound) as much like Britney as digitally possible? Ahem. Righteo. I can't believe I had to ask.

Tracy's anguish

2006-06-13T09:25:00.000+10:00

Tracy Grimshaw's life was changed forever by the Beaconsfield mine disaster.

It was particularly difficult when:

- Tracy became so dehydrated she had to drink her own urine

- Tracy's claustrophobia got so bad that she couldn't stop humming Martika's 1989 hit single 'I Feel the Earth Move' over and over and over again

- Tracy's life flashed before her eyes and she had to revisit particularly traumatic episodes of Today

- Tracy suffered the indignity of having to defecate into her own safety helmet

- Forced to face her own mortality, Tracy deeply regretted skipping channel nine staff meetings to go roo shooting

- Tracy became so weak with hunger she considered hacking off and eating Eddie Mcguire's limbs.

Poor lass. No wonder her life has been changed forever.

Although objectively I understand the temptation to wring every last human-interest drop out of the Beaconsfield mine accident, is the hyperbolic headline not a tad insulting to the family of Larry Knight?

Unless Tracy Grimshaw was so moved by the plight of the miners and their families that she has decided to devote the rest her working life to the investigation of workplace health and safety inequities then she should BUGGER OFF and find some other way to self-promote.

Notes from an audience member who cares: Dead Man's Chest

2006-06-10T11:38:00.000+10:00

Seen the preview for Sexually Ambiguous Johnny Depp in a Wet Shirt Being Very Amusing: Dead Man's Chest , aka Pirates of the Caribbean II: Dead Man's Chest? It looks like rollicking good fun if, like me, you are prone to regressing to childhood when watching a better-than-average "family" film.

The sequel looks like more of the same as we got in Curse of the Black Pearl, only better.

Better because it seems they've replicated what worked in the first film and weeded out the rest. This means there's more of Johnny Depp hamming it up in a wet shirt and eyeliner, more sometimes-icky but not-too-scary ghoulish special FX for the kiddies, more of Keira Knightley being butch and sassy, less of Keira Knightley being wistful and sappy, and, most importantly, MUCH MUCH LESS OF ORLANDO BLOOM.

Orlando only appeared in the trailer twice, briefly, and I trust/pray-to-the-gods-of-cinema that this is indicative of his screen time in the feature. The filmmakers seem to have adopted the very wise practice (as perfected in the Lord of the Rings trilogy) of only letting Orlando do three things - jump off moving things and look fearful (both of which he does very well), and deliver one or two brief expository lines of dialogue to justify his role in the film (which sadly he doesn't do so well).

No more straining to be the protagonist for little Orlando. Oh no. Just let him look pretty and pose for promotional 'hero' shots so that tween girls (who haven't yet recognised that he's both woefully untalented and not interested in girls of any age) will see the film at least three times with all of their friends and then buy the DVD release in time for Christmas.

Bring on the big ships and big FX and big battles! Bring on sassy Keira dressed as a man! Bring on the lovely Johnny Depp being as camp as it's humanly possible to be for a leading man in a mainstream film!

I want to regress to childhood, yet also admire his thighs as only a grown woman can.

Wonderful and Strange

2006-06-09T15:27:00.000+10:00

Don't you love it when something created by a stranger and kindly placed on the internet for all to enjoy unexpectedly turns your whole day around?

Exhibit A:

Michael Paulus is a multimedia artist working in Oregon. One day it occured to him just how grotesquely distorted famous animated characters are. This was no fleeting notion. Strange and curious thinker that he is, Mr Paulus actually set about illustrating beautiful, detailed skeletal diagrams for everyone from Hello Kitty to Peppermint Patty.

*applause*

‘Twenty Percent More’, Part Four

2006-06-09T12:05:00.000+10:00

The random and rambling observations of a Melbourne lass who went to the USA, saw some stuff, and then came home.

Part Four: The Elevator

No, this is not a tedious whinge about the fact that seppos don't know what a 'lift' is.

The elevator is the 'up and down' glance that one person gives another when checking them out*. The Elevator is usually a sexual thing but apparently straight girls also elevator other straight girls to assess hair/make-up/shoes/clothes/shape/accessories/threat-level.

My experience in The States indicates that Australian blokes are far subtler at catching the Elevator than Seppo men. Well done, boys.

Maybe I just don't go to the 'right places' in Melbourne but at a bar in LA one night (when my 'ladies' were housed very discreetly and I had a gentleman friend by my side) I was rather startled by the incredibly obvious elevator-action going on.

In a couple of instances there was actually enough time for me to

*blink*

*blink*

*blink*

and think of some possible responses**.

- Did you drop something down there, sir? Shall we look for it together?

- Yes, they are real. It's possible in places that aren’t Los Angeles.

- Have you noticed you’re thinning out a little on top there?

- What size? Go on, have a guess. There's a dime in it for you.

- They’re genuine looking, huh? I got them done at the same time as the snip. There was a coupon deal.

- I’m sorry, did you just say Mommy?

Yo, Californian dudes. No one can stop you from looking but speed it up a little, yeah? Not since high-school have I been so embarrassed for the opposite sex.

* Victoria's esteemed Premier ~~Hymie~~ Steve Bracks is allegedy very unsubtle at practicing the elevator on every woman of age he comes into contact with. There's an A Current Affair hard hitting expose just waiting to happen.

** More suggestions welcomed.

'Twenty Percent More', Part Three

2006-06-09T11:58:00.000+10:00

Carrion Laughing at the Grand Canyon.

© snaz 2006

There were no words while I was there, and there still aren't.

What the hell are you doing today?

2006-06-06T09:57:00.000+10:00

Make the most of the day of The Beast. Go here.

I'm particularly fond of this idea: Stage a "Slay-out". Don't go to work.

'Twenty Percent More', Part Two

2006-06-05T22:27:00.000+10:00

The Pain in Spain

When in LA I was taken to a "Spanish Wine Bar". It was a perfectly nice but rather straight establishment, with perfectly nice but rather straight hot young people inside of it.

The owners were clearly very committed to their chosen theme because they felt it was not enough to simply serve fine wine, some of it Spanish, and hire bar staff with long black hair and dark flashing eyes. No, they drove home their image by covering the walls in Picasso prints, posters of bull fighters, and a madcap photo of a runaway vegetable cart at a small, presumably Spanish, provincial market. The images were placed slightly askew on the wall for a "relaxed" and "random" effect, as is the wont of a moody teenager in a television drama*.

If I hadn't already felt as though I were right in the heart of Barcelona, the walls had been painted an earthy red, the furniture and fittings were all wrought iron, and fake lemon vines wound haphazardly around the room. If I had squeezed past Antonio Bandaras on the way to the bathroom, I would not have been surprised. Melanie Griffith would have looked suprised, but she's been that way since 1996.

It was odd, but in a roundabout way I felt right at home in "relaxed" and "random" Spanish Los Angeles. Looking around at the excessive use of wrought iron and all the straight hot young things having a delightful time and touching each other's arms, I could have been in Spanish South Yarra. Or Spanish St Kilda. The effect was uncanny. And I didn't need a Ken Duncan print, or a poster of Vegemite, or a madcap photo of a man being chased by a kangaroo. Amazing. The world really is a small place.

* At age nine, I noticed the tendency of cool TV teens to place their posters at crooked angles and presumed it was the done thing. I rushed to "fix" my posters of The NeverEnding Story, U2 ,the Neighbours cast (with Lucy's face blacked out), and an adorable kitten smelling a flower. After just one night I cracked and straightened everything again (Type A, anyone?). Now of course I realise my instincts were correct and the whole moody-teens-crooked-posters thing is solely the invention of out-of-touch TV art department staff who think they're getting "down with the yoof". Crooked posters are naff. Don't do it kids.

P.S. To rely on a vague segue: So, speaking of Picasso...

As you can see from the above effort, I recently came across a nifty website where you can create your own Picasso. I know the very idea would make every art teacher I've ever admired cringe into their poorly ironed collars, but I LIKE IT. Who would have thought that hastily pouring my complex emotions into some shallow, knock-off computer art would actually improve my pathetically sad mood. Thank you Mr PicassoHead!

P.P.S. No, the man is not wearing an ill-fitting beret. It's a cloud. Duh.

Snaz Vs The USA, or 'Twenty Percent More', Part One

2006-06-03T23:31:00.000+10:00

That United States of America place I visited was strange, complex and full of contradictions, and I only visited four of the fifty states. Any effort to sum up my experiences would be unutterably naff, so instead, over the next few weeks (or however long it takes me to bore myself or you), I will present you with random observations, soapbox rants, and some of my photos. You can draw your own conclusion, naff or otherwise.

I won't be offended if one of the conclusions you draw is that I get excited about arguably very trivial matters.

Part One: What/Pardon?

Seppos and Australians. We speak the same language, right? The same as dem English folk.

Nuh uh.

And I'm not talking fair suck of the sav, china plate, boofhead, bogan, bevan or, God forbid, a bit of how's your father. It's the obvious, everyday words they go blank on: capsicum, jumper/top, loo, bathers, etc.

And they have "fanny" entirely arse backwards.

Most disturbing to me though was that Americans don't know what a loungeroom is, and when you explain that it's what they call a living-room, they say "Whaddya mean lounge? You mean like a sofa?", and they look at you like you just said, "One has wearied of your crass nation. One would most like to be dining on tea and cucumber sandwiches whilst gazing out upon one's corgies frolicking in the verdure".

A beloved seppo friend and I joke that our frequent verbal misunderstandings and subsequent explanations actually provide us with twenty percent more conversation. Bargain. My New York cousins I visited as a child would just stare or laugh disparagingly, and then not let me play with their Popples.

I like the Twenty Percent More theory much better.

Also, the seppos thought it was side-splittingly quaint when I said "nice to meet you," or "good to meet you," after parting ways with a pleasant person I had just been introduced to. They tittered condescendingly, and I suspect if they had had Popples they wouldn't have let me play with them.

I mean, really. Fair suck of the sav.

Channeling Janette Howard

2006-06-02T07:44:00.000+10:00

I purchased a book of poems from the second-hand book shop called The Love Letters of Phyllis McGinley, by Phyllis McGinley, 1954. A cute little cloth-bound, hard-cover number in faded British racing-car green, with gold lettering. It smells like an old lady's house. But in a good way.

After a flick-through in the shop, Phyllis seemed domestic yet intellectual, quaintly old fashioned and romantic, yet genuinely insightful about humans - especially young female ones. Within two poems she made me both smile and sigh, yet I had never heard her name before.

While waiting in line I secretly hoped that she was some great, little known poet that I could casually quote and drop into conversation, and feel warm and secure inside knowing that I was spreading the word, and that I am really rather clever and ahead of the pack.

I could even start a little nerdy internet poetry fan cult. *squuuueeeeee!*

First step: Discover and memorise details about esoteric poetess of choice.

Bless you Google.

Phyllis McGinley 1905 - 1978
Born in Oregon.

Before she was a writer she was a teacher, a copywriter, and the poetry editor for Town and Country. She married at 22 and moved to New York. The suburban landscape and culture of her new home provided the subject matter for much of her poetry.

She was elected to the National Academy of Arts and Letters in 1955, and won the Pulitzer for her light verse collection, Times Three: Selected Verse from Three Decades with Seventy New Poems (1960).

In addition to poetry, McGinley wrote essays and children's books, as well as the lyrics for the 1948 musical revue, Small Wonder.

She even got her face on a stamp.

So far so good. Unfortunately she didn't drown herself or anything terribly romantic like that, but I do like the sound of a 1948 musical revue. This has promise for my nerdy internet fan cult. The fact that she has won a Pulitzer makes me feel good. I am not the only one to have sighed. Important people have sighed also.

To gain more insight into my potential new hero, I Google her quotable quotes. This, of course, is how you can safely sum up and judge a famous person's entire personality and published output within ten minutes. Fuck the poetry that makes you sigh when you're feeling lonely and hormonal, I want to know how my new hero thinks.

"Praise is warming and desirable. But it is an earned thing. It has to be deserved, like a hug from a child."

This is true. I like praise. And imagery involving children. This is going well.

"Sticks and stones are hard on bones
Aimed with angry art,
Words can sting like anything
But silence breaks the heart."

Hmmm. Cute and pithy, yes, but it also smacks of "semi-professional lady poet". I can see it printed on a desk calender in the office of Mrs Myra Higginbottom-Jones, President of the CWA, Geelong Chapter.

This worries me.

"A hobby a day keeps the doldrums away."

Ditto. Myra is loving this shit.

"A lady is smarter than a gentleman, maybe, she can sew a fine seam, she can have a baby, she can use her intuition instead of her brain, but she can't fold a paper in a crowded train."

Oh. Dear. This is the first poet I have randomly connected with in years and I bet you a million dollars that J-Dubya bought Janette a first edition for her 60th.

"Frigidity is largely nonsense. It is this generation's catchword, one only vaguely understood and constantly misused. Frigid women are few. There is a host of diffident and slow-ripening ones."

Myra and Janette are nodding and clutching at their hearts. PHYLLIS McGINLEY UNDERSTANDS US.

"Getting along with men isn't what's truly important. The vital knowledge is how to get along with a man, one man."

*flicking madly through book, trying to work out why I loved it instantly*

Could I have more in common with Janette than just our love for flat shoes and fantasy fiction?

"I do not know who first invented the myth of sexual equality. But it is a myth willfully fostered and nourished by certain semi-scientists and other fiction writers. And it has done more, I suspect, to unsettle marital happiness than any other false doctrine of this myth-ridden age."

Phyllis and my elderly Irish relatives speaketh the truth. My wild notions of sexual equality are why I am still on the shelf. Curse my mother for taking me to "Reclaim the Night" marches when I was a wee, impressionable lass.

"Marriage was all a woman's idea and for man's acceptance of the pretty yoke, it becomes us to be grateful."

God Bless Men. They really are very patient with us, aren't they? Pass the sugar, please Myra, be a Dear.

And last but not least...

"In Australia, not reading poetry is the national pastime."

Well.

I say, that's not very nice, Phyllis. Rather uncalled for, actually. I bought YOUR book, and I read it. You really had me on side for a while, but I'm packing up my needle work and I'm going home. Janette? Myra? Are you coming?

What this goes to show you is that you can't trust a woman. A husband is the only one that can truly be relied upon in life.

Note to self: Spend less time dreamily flicking through old books of poetry at second-hand book stores, more time trying to find a man to accept the "pretty yoke" with me.

Sure, Phyllis, your poetry can make me smile and sigh, but for that little anti-Australia barb at the end there you can forget all about the nerdy internet cult. Bitch.

Happiness at the misfortune of others

2006-05-30T07:51:00.000+10:00

The most distressing thing in Vegas was not the rednecks pulling their ~~spawn~~ very young children around the casinos on leashes in the middle of the night. It wasn't the hideous food poisoning I suffered, nor was it being trailed down the street at 1am by a pick-up full of men hollering about the soft parts of my body.

No, the most distressing thing about Vegas was narrowly missing out on this:

Not Le Reve. Not Tryst: An Affair to Remember.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I'M TALKING ABOUT AVENUE Q:

A perceptive, touching and hilarious musical involving Muppet-like puppets, including such numbers as:

"What Do You Do with a B.A. in English?"

"Everyone's a Little Bit Racist"

"The Internet Is For Porn"

and

"Schadenfreude".

G.O.L.D.

Books and Jelly introduced me to the soundtrack some time ago (bless their cotton socks) and while I now know the lyrics to most of the songs I haven't yet seen a pirated video recording, let alone the real thing.

Imagine my glee when I arrived in Vegas late on the first night of my two night stay, only to see the above beacon of hope amidst the sea of gaudy neon signs advertising "$5.99 Prime Rib", "Celine Dion LIVE", and "Hooters! Hooters! Hooters!".

*hugging myself for joy*

*attracting wary glances*

Then, imagine my woe upon discovering that not only I had missed that night's performance but THERE WOULD BE NO PERFORMANCE THE FOLLOWING EVENING.

I haven't felt that sense of crushing disappointment since the age of seven when, also in the USA, my family's planned trip to Sesame Street was cancelled because my cousin contracted chicken pox. Only this time my red-faced, fists-balled, furniture-kicking tantrum sadly did not result in my uncle quietly slipping me a fresh container of Flinstones vitamins (basically crack) and a fifty dollar note.

I considered skipping my non-refundable flight back to LA and booking an Avenue Q ticket for the following evening but then, after consideration of the precious and fast-vanishing time I would lose with my lovely LA host and his two charming canines, I faced the painful truth. No puppets singing about love and porn and mixed-tapes and Gary Coleman. Not for me.

Indulge in schadenfreude if you must. That's what blogs are for, right?

*pits of despair*

George W Bush Speechwriter

2006-05-29T22:39:00.000+10:00

Construct a speech for Bush and play it back. Just like the real thing, only you can make the bastard tell you the truth. This will take up great chunks of your valuable time on earth and you will have very little of substance to show for it. But don't let that stop you. Overcome a little of your Bush bitterness with an infantile chuckle or two.

If the site allowed me to be sillier and cruder I would like it even more.

I heart the internet.

***UPDATE***

It occurs that we could use this ingenious little tool to create trouble for G-Dubya and fun for us, in much the same way that nefarious Robert has CRUELLY AND FALSELY INCRIMINATED Izzy in the eyes of her beloved Paul on Neighbours.

Just an idea: leave a message on J-Dubya's message bank. "Hey there, little buddy. Had a bit of a head scratch, and I reckon it's time you threw in that PM game and came on over here to be my full-time little buddy. Whaddya say?"

*Howard resigns as PM*

*scurries to airport*

Changing the world, one ski-ball table at a time

2006-05-27T07:45:00.000+10:00

I went to Las Vegas and doubled my money*.

I also won this:

More importantly, however, I had a moral victory. While wandering through my hotel’s circus/children’s arcade (the appeal of which far outweighed the casino itself) my companions and I came across a gross injustice being perpetrated.

Let me set the scene:
There’s this one particular vintage carnival game in which participants play against each other for a dollar a turn. You each sit down before your own mini ski-ball table and one large ‘camel race’ (a desert scene with 10 wooden camels, each ridden by its own little middle-eastern looking dude) which stretches the length of the whole stall. Each person’s ski-ball table controls a camel, and the higher the ski-ball points you get, the faster your camel ‘races’. First camel to the end wins a prize.

I hadn’t planned on spending money on the games because I wouldn’t be able to fit any prizes in my luggage anyway. But then I spotted a child crying.

And then I spotted what had made the child cry.

One of the contestants at the camel-race stall was a large-boned lady who had settled in for the long haul. She was good at the game and she had a huge pile of soft toys amassing at her feet. She beat everyone who sat down to play against her, including small humans with innocent eyes, high hopes, and poorly developed eye-hand coordination. The strange old carny man running the stall didn’t look too happy about it but this was Vegas and no one turns away money in Vegas.

SOMETHING HAD TO BE DONE ABOUT THE SMUG FAT LADY.

Calling on the full-force of my competitive spirit, usually reserved only for air-hockey, Cluedo (Clue), and Frogger, I sat down, gave smug fatty the evil eye, and concentrated fiercely on my ski-ball…

And I lost. But only just.

Fatty could see I was a contender. She started sweating. The strange old carny sensed a turn of the tide. He winked at me. The tear-stained children leaned closer. My companions developed that slightly scared look in their eye that Munkey gets when we play Cluedo.

I slapped another dollar on the table. I emptied my mind. THE ONLY THING IN THE WORLD WAS SKI BALL.

And I beat the bitch.

Bottom lip out, she collected her pile of soft toys and DEPARTED IN SHAME. The children rejoiced. The carny let me choose my own prize. I took a leopard, asked the carny what his name was, and named the leopard 'Larry' after him.

We’ve all got to do our bit to improve the world. Some people volunteer time and money to saving trees or helping brown children; others rush into burning buildings, pick up litter, watch community television, or rescue kittens from trees.

I race wooden camels in Vegas.

* Actual money wagered totaled only US$5.00.

LA Celebrity Sightings: The Good and the Bad/Ugly

2006-05-27T03:38:00.000+10:00

I wasn’t really expecting the Holy Grail but I hoped, being LA and all, I would get thrown a little something. With the amount of time Paris and Lindsay spend outside ~~posing for~~ getting hounded by paparazzi, I thought the odds were good.

Instead, my celebrity contact list has ended up looking like a slow night on Rove.

PARTE THE FIRSTE: THE GOOD

I hadn’t been in LA long when I hit the jackpot. I was walking the dogs when a fancy-shmancy black car slowed down near me and stopped by the curb. There was a lot of glare on the window but I could have sworn the driver was Ralph Fiennes.

Yes, “Rafe”. The brooding one. He of the mysterious name, the intelligent wounded eyes, the grave lips. The man who made little Snazzy want to run out and become a grown-up really rather quickly when she saw The English Patient at the age of sixteen.

I was all prepared to coolly greet him as a stranger, yet have that knowing look in my eye that said “I know who you are but I’m in LA now and I’m not about to lose my shit because you’re amazing and talented and you you’re on my Guilt-Free-3 list RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT AND OH MY GOD YOUR LIPS ARE TO DIE FOR”. He would ask me for directions, and I would smile shyly and say that I was a stranger in this city too, and he would laugh and say something droll to set me at ease, and we would try to decipher his street map together, and he would lean rather close and smell very lovely, and even though he usually prefers older women he would make an exception for me, and…

Oh dear. Carried away much?

You get the picture.

Sadly, if it was Ralph in that car behind the glare-obscured glass, I blew my chance to appear urbane and beautiful, yet relaxed and down to earth enough to get up before 10am and walk the dogs.

Because at the time of squinting in the car window I was also squatting down on the grass, in the process of scooping up a fresh dog turd. A big one. A smelly one.

And the plastic bag I was using had a hole in it.

The moment the mysterious Rafe-like driver rolled down his window and got a good look at me and what I was doing, he promptly changed his mind. He drove away and out of my life forever.

PARTE THE SECONDE: THE BAD/UGLY

Before I left home, magician/alleged comedian The Amazing Jonathan was doing a show at the Melbourne Comedy Festival. This barely registered on my radar because his ads in the paper were always placed next to a photo of Joan Rivers. And who, for the love of God, can be expected to tear their eyes away from THIS:

While here in LA, I spotted The Amazing Jonathan in the car park of a supermarket. Joan Rivers wasn’t there so he captured my attention. He was wearing his signature black head band and it made me wonder - not for the first time - what it is he’s hiding under there. A third eye? The mark of the devil? Really bad acne that no amount of professional-level magic will do away with?

Then, when lining up for my flight to Las Vegas, The Amazing Jonathan (and headband) GOT IN LINE THREE PEOPLE BEHIND ME.

At that moment it became painfully clear to me that I am being stalked by a loud, plus-size magician with beady eyes, and a headband that covers a tattoo bearing my name.

If you’re about to tell me that I have an over-active, twisted imagination and that it’s entirely possible The Amazing Jonathan lives in LA, and that this month he was just coincidentally performing in both Melbourne and (admittedly, his usual haunt) Vegas because he is an international performer who travels a lot, well SHUSH because you’re spoiling my story of self-pity.

I spent the short but interminable flight to Vegas wondering why – if I must have a celebrity stalker – it had to be a beady-eyed man with dwindling notoriety who drinks window cleaner on stage for a living.

And why, oh why, did I need to have dog shit on my hands when a-man-who-was-quite-possibly-Ralph-Fiennes stopped for directions?

*weeps*

P.S. Can somebody who has been living in Melbourne please tell me what the hell is with Joan Rivers and the penguins?

Why is she so keen on protecting their natural environment when she herself so clearly shuns all things that are natural? The whole affair frightens me. Perhaps this is prescisely why The Phillip Island Penguin Foundation asked Ms Rivers to be their ambassador. They’re counting on people instinctively wanting to protect the poor little things from THOSE EYES and THOSE NAILS and THOSE TEETH. Here is my credit card number! Quickly! Help the flightless birds! For the love of God, they can’t waddle fast enough to save themselves!

When my womb skips a beat

2006-05-26T04:50:00.000+10:00

Apologies for this post go out to anyone who isn't a total freakin lame-o softie.

If you are a lame-o softie or a lame-o softie-sympathiser however, and you haven't already seen this YouTube clip (found on the marvellous Neatorama), check it out and prepare to go "awwwwwwww...".

Why is it that small animals behaving in an unusual and adorable manner have a direct line to my womb and baby/happy making hormones? Is it just me or did this clip make other women of child-bearing age smile in a dreamy fashion and think, "Wow, it's about time I helped out the government and my nation by squeezing out at least two sprogs. And soon.". I had a similar reaction when seeing this photo of the so-yummy-I-might-eat-her-when-I-finally-meet-her Rita on the blog of the ever sassy Books.

WHY IS THIS? Shouldn't it only be the young OF MY OWN SPECIES that have this effect on me, or is the female body hardwired to want to nurture all small, defenceless and somewhat idiotic creatures that come into its orbit?

I should close by saying that I know many lovely lame-o softie women who don't have the sprog-making urges and perhaps never will. Lucky them, perhaps. My womb is a force to be reckoned with, and frequently makes me behave in an embarrassing and counter-productive manner both in relationships and on the street when I see a child, a puppy, or the strong broad shoulders of a man I don't know, and can suddenly think of nothing else but furthering the species. And soon.

Lordy, I need help.

Carrion, Chubs and Suckers

2006-05-23T09:19:00.000+10:00

Today I leave my base in L.A. to head to Las Vegas for a couple of nights.

I will be staying in a hotel called CircusCircus. Keeping in mind that I’m going to Vegas seeking a high kitsch, over-the-top experience this is a promising name, no?

The hotel includes:

- The world’s largest permanent circus;

- An electronic arcade;

- Three casinos (in case you get kicked out of the first two?);

- Three swimming pools (again, it begs the question...);

- 2,200 slot machines (oh dear, am suddenly reminded that some years ago I protested the opening of the Melbourne Crown Casino*);

- The Adventure Dome (five acres of adventure theme park);

- "Over eight restaurants"**;

- Twenty stores;

- An RV park (I sense some classic people-watching coming on);

And,

- A wedding chapel, which I may visit but not utilise. Not even for a good story.

I will also visit the Grand Canyon, in Arizona. I’m quite sure it won’t be as spectacular as CircusCircus, but it will be nice for a bit of contrast and fresh air. Ahem.

The Grand Canyon includes:

- Millions of years of geological history on display, thanks to spectacular erosion caused by the Colorado River and the shifting of the Colorado Plateau;

- 446 km of canyon, up to 29 kilometers wide, and 1,600 metres deep;

- Mountain lions and coyote;

- Condors and Golden Eagles (which Carrion Laughing will pay due homage to, of course);

- Rattlesnakes (which I had a nightmare about last night, *shudder*);

- Fish with the rather intriguing names of the humpback chub and the humpback sucker (I suspect I might find chubs and suckers in Vegas too)

And,

- Whitewater rafting, which I may watch but not participate in. My medical insurance won’t allow it. Not even for a good story.

Photos and tawdry tales when I get back. I promise.

* I will sidestep inevitable charges of hypocrisy here by stating that I would never stay at or support a casino in my own country. Besides, I am entering Vegas in the mode of Jane Goodall, taking notes on human and barely-human behavior. Also, I like the circus.
** One wonders what “over eight” means. Which sad excuse for a restaurant makes it to 8 ½ but not really nine? And will it be immediately clear to me which eating establishment doesn’t make the grade?

Notes from an audience member who cares

2006-05-23T03:38:00.000+10:00

Re: The Da Vinci Code

Yes, Mr Hanks, there’s something innately likeable and avuncular about you, but did you at any point consider imbuing your character in this film with a personality? Let me know if I should blame Richie Cunningham, Akiva Goldsman or Dan Brown for that. Also: don’t you think Audrey Tautou is hot? Did you consider maybe trying to develop a little bit of sexual tension with her so that there was something for me to enjoy when I was not ABSOLUTELY FACINATED by exposition about the Knights Templar? She was really putting it out there for you but you seemed more interested in Looking Earnest. Top job on the earnest thing by the way. You’ve got the market cornered. But you really should have had the horn for that Sophie chick. You know that really crucial bit at the start of the film when Sophie tells Langdon (an apparently sensible, stable and totally guilt-free good guy) to go on the run from the cops, and he ACTUALLY DOES IT WITHOUT MUCH EVIDENCE OR PAUSE FOR THOUGHT. Well, that would have been more believable if, when Langdon had first clapped eyes on Sophie, it had seemed that he was thinking “My oh my, that little cheese-eating minx in the sensible skirt is making me feel hot in my pants and I suspect I will do whatever she tells me to”. Instead, you just looked kinda earnest. And boring. Yet strangely likeable and avuncular.

You deserve a better film, sweet pea. I apologise for writing you off after this nonsense. Turns out you can do much more than simper, look skyward, and open your eyes real wide whilst biting lightly down on your bottom lip. Good for you. And I don’t know what Mr Hanks’ problem was either. You’re seriously hot stuff.

Well, at least you were having fun. There was a strong whiff of ham about you but I felt this distracted pleasantly from the overcooked potatoes of Mr Hanks. I don’t know how you pulled off some of the lines they gave you whilst maintaining a serious expression. For example: “We are in the middle of a war. One that has been going on forever to protect a secret so powerful that if revealed it would devastate the very foundations of mankind.” I’ve noticed that when you get a gnarly line like that you just open up the throttle on those patented twinkly eyes of yours. And it works. *applause*

You both suck and blow, Sir. Good day to you.

Snore. Mr Goldsman, the fact that you were adapting from an overrated potboiler is no excuse. By definition, a Thriller should be thrilling. That goes for you too, Richie. You could have pulled Mr Hanks aside and said, “I think you really need to look scared here. Not earnest. Scared. Forget about all that confusing Templar stuff we talked about, there’s a crazed homocial albino who thinks he’s on a mission from God, and he… Um, hang on, Oscar-Winning screenwriter Akiva Goldsman? What is it that the crazed albino is trying to do again? I know he’s creepy and scary because he’s all white and weird and stare-y, and he’s got that icky, hurty belt thingy on his leg, but does he actually pose a tangible threat to our protagonist in the first hour of the film?"

-- -- --

"Huh. Well, Tom. Never mind about the crazed albino. I think the audience will feel that the plot is thrilling if you just look scared occasionally.”

Also, Richie, while I’ve got your attention. Desire. Romance. SEX! Maybe you were trying to be considerate and politically correct by not mixing Jesus and sex, but I didn't expect an all-out skin fest, or even a lingering kiss. All I wanted was some sexual tension, resolved or otherwise, between your two main characters. When two characters the audience is supposed to care about start making the eyes at each other they immediately become more interesting. Even if they never lock lips we know that they care what happens to each other, and we instantly care a little more about what happens to them. Remember how it worked with Joanie and Chachi?

Now, I know Sophie and Langdon weren’t explicitly trying to touch each other’s soft bits in the novel but the subtext was certainly there and it added to the stakes. You almost entirely overlooked it. It seems odd that while you were trying to sell the concept that Jesus was a mortal man who got hot in his robes for the ladies, you actually bypassed sex and romance in your own plot entirely. You wanted your audience to believe that before he got strung up Jesus had the horn for Maggers, that they got to know each other in the biblical sense, and that they begat Maggers Jnr. A shocking concept for some but it is undoubtedly all about the simple, human, and undeniably universal concept of SEX. It’s hot. It’s intriguing. It shocks and/or delights people. It’s partly why the book sold over 8 million copies. YOU COULD HAVE CAPITALISED ON THIS. No need to actually show Jesus getting hot under the collar, as that perhaps would have shocked the mainstream, church-going public (just ask Scorsese) but, like Dan Brown did, you could have simply alluded to the Jesus-sex whilst letting the audience invest in the far-more-acceptable sexual tension between Sophie and Langdon.

Thus ends my sermon.

Oh, and P.S.:

*sigh*

I reckon I could put some colour in your cheeks, boyo.

Johnny Makes Funny. Again.

2006-05-20T10:58:00.000+10:00

Media mogul Rupert Murdoch has reignited speculation on John Howard's future by predicting that the Prime Minister will retire "at the top of his form".
"Much better to go out that way than like Margaret Thatcher or losing an election."
The Age, Michael Gordon, May 18, 2006

What a clever chap! I would very much like to lick his bottom!

*approves*

The Australian public love and support John Howard. Which is to say, of course, that I love and support John Howard.

You have disappointed me, Jeff.

Prime Minister! My Lord, I failed you recently but I swear that I am a dutiful Death Eater - uh - I mean…loyal Party Member.

What? Who? A party? I thought we were doin’ this "addressing the nation" dohicky. Ain’t that what we’re doin’?

Prime Minister, isn’t there anything I can to make it up to you? I still have Ginger’s number from that time I met the Spice Girls.

*collective shudder*

Shush now, I am busy Being Important with George.

So this is still a rehearsal, right? That's what we’re doin’? Cuz I’m ready for the cameras this time. I am. Bring. It. On.

*sigh* Isn’t he lovely?

Which? Where now?

Put 'em up! Which one of you first? I can fight you both together if you want!

Everyone knows I could take you down fatty.

I can fight you with one paw tied behind my back!

Oh please. Anyhoo, did everyone hear me say that Mr Murdoch is a very clever and important man?

*approves*

I can fight you standing on one foot! I can fight you with my eyes closed! Ruff!

*blinks*

Oh, Peter?

Fuck off and die, you gammy little turd.

What was that, Peter?

Nothing, Prime Minister.

Look, just wanted to let you know… It’s yours.

What is?

The job. No one likes a public comparison to the Iron Lady. Not these days.

I don’t know what to say! This is just so unexpected!

I’m thinking an elegant handover in December. After Thanksgiving with George.

*glee*

Before you go Peter…

Yes, Prime Minster. Anything, Prime Minister.

*sniggers*

What’s so funny, Prime Minister?

I was joking. Jesting. Pulling your leg. And you believed me. AGAIN.

Deep breaths, Petey. Don’t. Cry. Don’t. Cry.

Did you see what I did there George?

One day soon they’re going to find kiddy pornography on his personal computer and it will all be over.

Did you see Peter’s face? Did you? Did you see it? HE WAS GOING TO CRY.

What? Immigration? Yes. A very important issue. Ahem. Border control. Employment crisis. Yes.

I was funny, huh?

Wait, funny? You want me to do funny this time? Cuz I got some swell jokes.

Ha ha! Good one! Very funny, Mr President! Excellent timing!

I ain’t made with the funny yet, little buddy. But here it comes: What are the most useless kind of cans we have in America?

I don’t know Mr President. What are the most useless kind of cans you have in America?

Mexi-CANS! Geddit, little buddy?

Ha ha! Do I! I think I even peed a little bit, Mr President!

Let me clean that up for you, My Lord.

I haven't forgiven you yet.

What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the "ape" in apricot? What have they got that I ain't got?

Don't. Cry. Concentrate on the kiddy porn.

*approves*

Bosoms, Bongos and Blades on a Blue-Sky Day, or Why I Love San Francisco

2006-05-19T01:35:00.000+10:00

Golden Gate Park and surrounds. Just an ordinary Sunday, except there was definitely something in the air. Especially surrounding the drumming circle. After a while it was difficult to keep the camera steady.

Take special note of the man finding the beat with a bottle of meds in each hand. In fact, look carefully in the background of all three of the impromptu-concert photos. There's more characters there than you'd find in a double-episode of The Love Boat.

In regards to first times...

2006-05-18T14:04:00.000+10:00

The first bomb the Allies dropped on Berlin during World War II killed the only elephant in the Berlin Zoo.

First Time was the first album of Japanese pop group Morning Musume. It was released on July 8, 1998, and sold 310,290 copies.

The first time I flew on an aeroplane I threw up on the arm rest controls between my seat and my father’s. The vomit fried the wiring. It was an eighteen hour flight and the reading lights in my aisle stayed on all night. If Dad hadn’t held his head high and protected me, sleep-deprived passengers would have throttled seven year-old Snazzy.

The first human habitation of Australia is estimated to have occurred at least 40,000 years ago.

The first undisputed European sighting of Australia was made by Dutch navigator Willem Jansz only 400 years ago.

The first couple to be shown in bed together on prime time television were Fred and Wilma Flintstone.

My first imaginary friend was named Chubbagubby. Don't mess with Chubbagubby.

The first sin of man involved Adam eating an apple at the behest of Eve, which really ticked God off. But really, if a hot naked chick with the ability to talk to snakes offered you some tasty-looking fruit, you’d take it, wouldn’t you?

The first circus can be traced to Ancient Rome. It was the only public spectacle in Ancient Rome at which men and women were not separated.

The first thing I ever wrote for a public audience was a retelling of The Three Little Pigs in which the Wolf successfully ate all three pigs after destroying their dwellings*. I was five.

Apparently the First Amendment of the United States Constitution forbids laws that (among other things) establish a state religion or prefer a certain religion. Who'd have thunk it.

Philip Seymour Hoffman’s first film was Triple Bogey on a Par Five Hole.

The first time ever I saw your face,
I thought the sun rose in your eyes,
And the moon and stars were the gifts you gave,
To the dark and the empty skies**.

Often the first of Jesus’ lessons to be overlooked by finger-pointing Christians: “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her” (John 8:7).

On Gilligan’s Island, the first names of Gilligan and the skipper were only mentioned once during the entire series. Gilligan’s was Willy. The skipper’s was Jonas. The skipper’s last name was Grumby.

When I sat down to write my first blog post I got so nervous I had to clean the house. Twice. And it wasn’t even my house.

Apparently it gets easier. I know this because I am definitely not the first person I know to jump on this blog bandwagon.

The first piece of legislation of Australia’s Federal Parliament in 1901 was the Immigration Restriction Act, designed to "place certain restrictions on immigration and... for the removal... of prohibited immigrants” to ensure that non-Europeans were not admitted. Not the last time such policies would find favour with our esteemed leaders.

* I didn’t approve of the smug pigs’ obsession with personal property and material goods, or their antagonism towards the community-minded wolf, who was simply eager to meet and greet his new neighbours. He didn’t want to have to eat them.

** That one goes out to you, Philip. Love you with a beard, by the way. And when you bashed the shit out of Tom Cruise in M:I:III? Hot.

The roundabout aim of the above list of firsts is to set the scene for this here web log, which will frequently include:

- pop culture references that tickle my fancy;

- quaint phrases like “tickle my fancy”;

- political rants (of the only vaguely informed variety);

- personal anecdotes, humiliating or otherwise;

- more mentions of Philip Seymour Hoffman than most people will find entirely necessary;

- simplistic and potentially (but not intentionally) offensive Christian allusions;

- Possibly inaccurate internet-sourced trivia quoted alongside really rather important facts. Which is which? YOU be the judge.

Carrion Laughing

The Most Nerdtastic Tee Ever Created

*wub*

Oh to be a fly...

Life on Mars

Get Staphed

Tracy's anguish

Notes from an audience member who cares: Dead Man's Chest

Wonderful and Strange

‘Twenty Percent More’, Part Four

'Twenty Percent More', Part Three

What the hell are you doing today?

'Twenty Percent More', Part Two

Snaz Vs The USA, or 'Twenty Percent More', Part One

Channeling Janette Howard

Happiness at the misfortune of others

George W Bush Speechwriter

Changing the world, one ski-ball table at a time

LA Celebrity Sightings: The Good and the Bad/Ugly

When my womb skips a beat

Carrion, Chubs and Suckers

Notes from an audience member who cares

Johnny Makes Funny. Again.

Bosoms, Bongos and Blades on a Blue-Sky Day, or Why I Love San Francisco

In regards to first times...

wub