Fuck Me I'm Cute

So, if you want to get away with everything, wear plaits.

The power of plaits! It's amazing.

I have been labouring lately and wear a daily uniform of jeans, t-shirt, grey hoody, overalls and plaits (to minimise the paint and plaster shit in my hair) and I must say it's so working for me. I do look pretty damn cute in my paint spattered overalls and plaits.

I was driving someone to the airport the other morning and, whilst slowing down to give way to a bus near the amber lights, I made a last minute decision to keep going and, of course, just as I passed through the lights turned red. Bugger. At that same instant I noticed the cop on the other side of the lights. Me-mao.

He did a U-ee and on went the lights. (He was on a motorbike. Awesome.) I got out of the car, all cute and shit in my plaits, my hands apologetically poised in prayer position in front of my lips and I said "I realised that just as I passed through the lights. I was slowing down for the bus. That was a mistake. That was really silly. But I have to take someone to the airport if you could please, please let me go." (He had to get a jetstar flight for fuck's sake and you know what Nazis they are.)

He bashfully dropped his head to the side and down, gave me a little "well, you gotta be careful..." tap on the hand and let me go!

Then a couple of days later at work I asked who I thought was a plumber if he wouldn't mind changing the washer on our leaking tap while he was there. "Sure, no problem" he replied and he promtly fixed it. Turns out he was just a delivery guy! Ha ha ha.

And they LOVE me in the hardware store. Especially the old woman. She's in love with me and I'm in love with her. She farewelled me with a chuffed little shrug of the shoulders, like an excited child at a fair, and said with delight "don't stop smiling". I melted.

So dudes, get yourself some paint spattered overalls and no matter what you wear, plait your hair!

Tomorrow I am going to rob a bank with plaits. I'll let you know how it goes.

Rain

Riding home from work into the thick, dark, Irish grey evening and a head wind. The rain is gently, steadily setting in on me but I'm warm now that I'm half an hour into my ride.

I'm lovin' it.

I may not love it after I've sat damp in the chiro waiting room for forty minutes but right now I am.

I definitely won't be when I leave the chiro and battle the ten times colder wind on my way home but I'm lovin' it now.

And there's a hot shower waiting for me at home and pumpkin just begging to be made into soup.

I've said it before and I'll say it again; I love winter.

Call me crazy.

Favourite thing today: my arse. It's gonna look great come spring...if I keep this up.

Sunday's Post

For some odd reason today's post has been published under yesterday's so you might have to scroll down.

MIFFed

I love the Melbourne International Film Festival. It is such an awesome time of year. Not long after comes the Melbourne International Arts Festival and spring and then all manner of fucking festivals...

But MIFF is one of the highlights of my year. (Mind you it will be hard to surpass Bloc Party).

And this year I even got a new fangled sexy little official looking and brightly coloured plastic, swipable, mini pass card!!!!!! All the films I book are automatically loaded on the "system" and I effectively have a film bank account so I just rock up and swipe and I'm in! So cool! Makes me feel so special and so wee-in-the-pants excited. Plus no more anxious queuing at the Forum.

So I saw my first film today, an Argentinean documentary called Oscar about a taxi driver who, offended by advertising, frequently stops to paint over or add collage images to billboards. He is brilliant!!!!! It also showed the extreme depravity that he and his family live in, as do many Argentineans, in a country that seems to be politically unstable and really quite poor and desperate. The doco was superb. It totally reinvigorated me. I have become a lazy activist. I have felt too powerless lately to do anything other than march, write letters to pollies and newspapers etc and generally keep trying to live my end of the bargain by treading as lightly on this earth as possible and voting with my dollars. I will no longer leave the house without a texta or a can of spray paint. I wish I was as brilliant as him though. In case you hadn't noticed I tend to state the obvious: just blurt out the first thing that comes into my head.

But Lordy, I digress...

I sat down in the festival club with all it's atmospheric, dim lamps and listened to Paul Harris from RRR's Film Buff's Forecast interview Tony Krawitz (director of Australian 50 minute film Jew Boy) and David Stratton and that warm rush of memory came over me from previous years: queuing around the corner to get into popular films, layers and scarves to brace me from the cold in between films, getting a sore back in the third film in a day, Stellas at the club...yum! So much stimulation.

I'm sorry if I bore you. This blog may well turn into a MIFF film review site for the next two weeks but I'll keep it brief.

Favourite thing today: MIFF you idiots!

Slow

I'm sorry about that post the other day about going slow, I was on drugs. I don't have time to go slow, I am a busy fucking lady!

No, that's not true. Yes, it is true that I am a busy fucking lady, but I do have a bit of time to go slow and it has paid off nicely. I can even go slow at work as it is the nature of much of my job right now. (I am labouring - mostly painting at the moment. Back breaking but slow...ish).

So as it's Sunday now, my religious taking it easy day, let me tell you of my progress with going slow.

I acquiesced to my dog's slow speed the other day and chose a longer, sunnier route down a pretty street. On the way a man (who had clearly read my blog and had quickly gotten on this slow band wagon) was sweeping out the front of his house and then whacking piles of nothing back inside his fence with his best golf swing. As I approached he got down on all fours with a cheeky grin and started sniffing my dog. My dog was utterly bewildered but the slow dude and I were very amused. We exchanged no words, just hearty giggles and I moved on.

Awesome. Such a good way to start my day - with a wander, a surprise and a laugh.

I sat down and watched a slow DVD the other night. (Kind of cheating, I know, but it's worth a mention because it was incredible). If you haven't seen Hana-Bi by Takeshi 'Beat' Kitano, then please do. It is utterly brilliant.

But then on my way home from work on Friday I wanted to kill a man who was going slow. I was cycling furiously up hill in the Melbourne CBD at peak hour (which, if you cycle in Melbourne, you'll know is one of the least fun things a person can do). A man ahead clocked me and went through the "hmm, should I or shouldn't I cross the road right now in front of that cyclist who is clearly having a hard time getting up this hill and must be very tired after her long day's labouring and probably not looking forward to the cycle home from South Melbourne to Brunswick in the cold" sort of thinking process but ultimately decided yes, he would fuck my shit up and serve his own interests. But instead of doing the kind of hop, skip and jump road cross that I would do to avoid causing bother to other people, he decided to take it really slowly and then, jusy as he passed directly into my path, slowed down even more so he could light a cigarette.

"Take your time" I hissed at him. Cunt.

So I clearly haven't come to terms with this slow shit.

But there's a time and place for everything right? RIGHT?

Either side of this slow experiment I am certainly still rushing around like a maniac. Shit to do! Money to make! Shopping, cleaning, dog walking, socialising, MIFF...ay yay yay.

And I am riding everywhere. Fast. Well, as fast as my unfit legs will take me. Yesterday I was riding into the wind, having a jolly hard time of it. "Why am I going so slow and seemingly getting nowhere?" I asked myself. "Is it the wind? Or is it because I haven't ridden for the past two months because I was filming and then being a lush in Sydney and am therefore very unfit?" But eventually I turned a corner and sailed along - up hill! Alas, and thank God, it was the wind. I was starting to worry. But I need to get fit again. My arse is starting to sag in a rather unsavoury way - all small and flat, with skin hanging flacidly around nothing, where it used to hug all sorts of goodness like fat and muscle. So, no time to sit around wasting away! Must get on with the show.

When I retire and move to the country I'll have plenty of time to go slow.

But I will keep trying.

Favourite thing today: Sunday. I love Sundays almost as much as I love sleep. But not as much as Bloc Party.

Something Smells Funky

I rarely watch TV because it bores the bejesus out of me most of the time. But I thought I'd turn it on whilst I had dinner (on my own) tonight. I did see a really interesting thingo on the design and realisation of the new Spencer Street Station, which I love! That rocked. That saved me from smashing the TV screen, having flicked past Getaway and pausing to find out where those crystal blue waters and cute smiley children are.

How much do I hate that fucking patronising blond bitch? I want to push her through a mince maker, make her into patties, burn her on my barbeque, pronounce her unfit for the dog, throw some of her in the bin and kick the rest of her over the fence.

Reading what rates in the Green Guide this morning reminded me why I tend not to read such articles usually - because I get so depressed about my country which I am trying so desperately to keep holding in high regard. I am clinging with my fingernails to the notion that Australia is full of intelligent, forward thinking, educated, artistically inclined individuals who demand high standards in all areas of life and are excited by progress, change, culture, science, new ideas, fresh air and healthy political debate. A country of do-ers. Socially and environmentally responsible. Politically active and aware.

Bah!

That's right. We are a fucking penal colony. I spent so many hours telling people in England that they have no idea. Oh well...it's nice to dream.

So dream I do.

I quickly found a friendly article about the discovery of the first truffle in Victoria. This passage delighted me:

"'Have you ever smelled a bull's breath?' asked an excited Mr Kerr yesterday, standing among his hazelnut and oak trees. 'These truffles have an amazing bovine, funky kind of molasses smell...'"

I took this one with me and ran today because every other article just upsets me and I sometimes can't remain objective. I get all tied up in knots and desperate a.) at the news and b.) at the journalism.

But that's a blog for another day.

I want more amazing bovine, funky kinds of molasses smells.

*goes and sticks her head in the laundry basket*

Favourite thing today: The Bloc Party come down.

Does Life Get Any Better Than This?

I GOT A TICKET TO BLOC PAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRTTTYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And I didn't even have to suck cock!

Fuck me dead I am the happiest girl in the world!!!!!!!!

Oh my god, Oh my god, I can barely breathe...Hang on wait-

*goes and changes knickers*

Lordy, where do I start?

Thoughts that went through my head and feelings that passed through my loins tonight:

Fuck it's cold.

Fuck there are a lot of people here who are after a ticket. Why did they give Sydney a second gig when we sold out in an hour and we are THE MUSIC CAPITAL OF AUSTRALIA!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Hey bitch, stop hassling everyone, we got here first. Have some decency and wait with us.

Oh my god, the bitch has a ticket! What's that? He has another one? She's pointing to me? "Yes!"

You are my favourite bitch ever!!!!!!!!! I love you bitch!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

Oh look, a step!

*goes to step and commandeers it*

*doesn't move from that spot all night*

Who needs more than one drink anyway? Drinks are for chumps.

I wish my boyfriend was here.

Hum di dum di dum.

Oh, woo hoo! Cut Copy!!!!!!

Oh wow. They are so much better third time round. And so much more confident. I thought nothing would surpass the first gig, on a pill, with the arms of two hot boys around me at the Espy. The second gig kind of sucked but only because the sound at the fucking Prince of kiss-my-arse Wales sucks arse. But the sound here is AWESOME and they're better than ever!!!!!

Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow!

Dan, you dance so much like my boyfriend. SO much!

But what's with those shoes? White Nikes? White? Nike?!?!?! Are you serious? Please don't dress yourself in future. OK, you're hot. Do what you want. I love you Dan!

"I LOVE YOU CUT COPY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

And Tim, yes I will come home with you. You are HOT! Oh no, my boy isn't here, can't do it.

I wish my boyfriend was here.

(Sorry babe, I know I said I wouldn't talk about you but I'm so happy I'm gonna do whatever I want tonight!)

I want to play the guitar!

I want to be in a band!

WOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOO!

Ow, my neck.

I LOVE MELBOURNE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH YYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh my god, I just came. And Bloc party haven't even come on yet.

*sits down*

*strips*

Why the hell did I wear all these clothes?

I'm so sick of tight black jeans cascading down to little slip on shoes or, in the boy's case, a pair of black Converse. Get a personality!!!!!

Mind you, here I am in my three year old knickerbockers looking like I just dismounted a horse. Or was just pulled out of a car crash. And my hair! I really should stop coming out in public with this hair. What was I thinking? I am so not picking up band members looking like this.

La la la...

Bored now.

Oh my god, Bloc Party!

Oh my god, how sexy is Kele?!?!?!?! Fucking hell!!!

And Gordy, you look strangely like Aaron Blabey only way sexier. Woah. Way sexy.

YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Man you are a tight band!

I love this song!

Ooh - I love this song!!

Oh oh oh - I love this song!!!!!!!

I LOVE BLOC PARTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I can't believe the spot I scored!

I can't believe how good they are!!!!!!!!!!

I can't believe how hot they are!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I can't believe my boyfriend isn't here!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Russell, you are the tiniest, cutest, nimblest, most amazing guitarist. Are you even over twelve?

Matt, you are not from this century. You look like Yoko and John's love child. You are incredible!!!!! Bang that drum! Bang it harder! Faster!!! Woah!!!!!!!!!

Gordy, you are the sexiest bass player alive!!!!!!!!!! Fuck me!

And Kele, could you be any hotter? Could you write better lyrics? Could you play better guitar? I don't think so. You are the SEXIEST MAN ON THIS EARTH!!!! The second sexiest. You are coming home with me and my boyfriend.

Oh damn!

I wish my boyfriend was here.

I WANT TO PLAY THE GUITAR!!!!!!!!! WHY CAN'T I PLAY THE GUITAR?

Oh my god, this is the best gig ever!!!!!!!! I am the happiest girl in the world!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I think I'm going to die.

"YYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Thank god women can have multiple orgasms.

Oh Bloc Party, you made my year! Thank you so, so much. I love you.

Her chariot is an empty hazelnut...

My dreams are always bad.

Always.

I can't even remember the last good one. I got close the other night when I was having sex with a black man (in my DREAM you perverts) and I had to stop because we didn't have any protection. I mean please. What kind of a tight arse am I if I can't even have wild unprotected sex with a (black!) stranger in my fucking dream? (You might have noticed that I'm using the F word again, but after some restraint I feel that I have earned the right to use it sparingly and thus relish it's yumminess to the fullest. But I digress...)

I don't often have night mares, just bad dreams. Stressful, unpleasant dreams. I find myslef having dream envy when people tell me of their Jungian fanatasy dreams with cliffs and oceans and huge gem stones and bridges of glass and messages from bank tellers with teeth of gold and suits of gossamer and treacle and three legged dogs who can drive and, and, a-and transformations into birds and stuff! They wake up going "what does it mean?" I want to start robbing them of their sleep just so I can have cool stuff in my dreams.

I never want to know what my dreams mean because I'm frightened that they just mean I am a deeply disturbed and unhappy chica. No thank you.

But what do they mean?!?!?!?!?

The freaky thing is that I am a pretty happy person right now with very little to worry about. And believe me, I know stress. I do it very well. It has been a companion of mine for years. But I have probably never been as stressless as I am now. OK, slight exago there, but life is pretty bloody grand and I have little to complain about. Yeah I'd love a job and a bit of self confidence and stuff but you know, can't be perfect or I'd have nothing to strive for (and nothing to blog about).

So why am I grinding my teeth? That's a newy.

And why are my dreams so bleedin' grim?

A friend suggested that I am maybe not very in touch with my dark side.

So my questions to my readers are these:

1. How do I get in touch with my dark side? Not THE dark side, just mine.

2. Does anyone have any other bright ideas about why my dreams are so awful or how I can get some good ones going on?

3. Has this turned into a therapy site? Eesh.

Favourite thing today: Bloc party. I simply cannot get enough of them. Am dying for a ticket for tomorrow night in Melbourne. Anyone? Pleeeeease?!?!?! I will suck cock. Or at least pay.

The Slow Factor

Well hello chappies,

it's been a while. But you haven't missed anything, I can assure you. Things have been dull.

However in these down times I have learnt something wonderful...the power of slow.

Twice now, in the past four weeks, I have witnessed two separate freinds on two separate occasions meandering down the street. Now this meandering business is not something I tend to do. But I plan on doing more of it.

I usually walk at a cracking pace with places to go, things to do. Rush, rush, rush. Such a city girl.

The first time I witnessed a friend meandering, I was waiting for him in a pub. On my own. He had already received a text from me with subtext the likes of "why are you late you fucking cunt? You know I'm alone". Not long after I glimpse him out the window strolling along at his leisure...in fact going super slow, as though he weren't really going anywhere, as though he hadn't left his female friend waiting on her own in a fucking pub! Well, I thought, doesn't seem to care much does he? The cheek! But then I thought...that looks really nice. I suddenly became incredibly envious and felt all warm at the prospect of chilling out to such a degree.

Then, today, I saw another friend walking home slowly. Really slowly, despite the fact that it was freezing (another motivating factor for me to walk fast). He was holding his jacket tightly around him and seemed to be in dream land. He looked so happy.

Have you ever been over seas? Or travelled at all for that matter? You know how magic always seems to happen when you are away? Crazy adventures? Delightful experiences that just don't seem to happen at home? You always think that you will bring that spirit home with you but you just don't seem to be able to? You even tried to bottle it in a jar or make a cologne out of it? But when you got home, within a week you seemed to return to old patterns and everything was back to normal?

Why?

I reckon (after YEARS of trying) that I've finally sussed it out. It's because we slow down when we travel. In every way. We don't know where we are, where we're going, even who we are most of the time. There's rarely a need to rush and everything around us is so new that we just soak it up. We want to see every detail. We want to taste every moment. We want to kiss every - oh, never mind.

It is so divine! And as a result, so much cool stuff happens. Because we are available. We are present. We are able to receive what life has to offer in that place, at that time.

Then we come home and we think we know everything. We know who we are, where we fit in, how to get to A, B and C, which tram to catch, which beer to drink, which role to play...or we think we do. We completely destroy our opportunity to be excited and surprised by our home towns by sliding into routines. We so often fail to see what's really happening around us because we're rushing to the next place. I do anyway. Even when I'm walking my dog I find it hard to stroll as there's somewhere else I have to be. And he is older and slower now.

So here's what I'm going to do and I invite you to do it too: at some point this week, I'm going to walk out my door and keep going. I'm not going to know where I'm going, I may not even take any money. I'm definitley not taking my phone. I'm just going to stroll around and see where my feet take me. Or my nose. Or my eyes, ears, heart, whatever. And every day this week I am going to take at least ten minutes at some point in the day to chill the fuck right out. To slow down to a quarter of my speed. To just observe.

I always laugh more when I'm like this. My eyes are always open wider too. I feel like I inhabit myself and I am so happy. I have been there, several times, but frequently hurry along ahead of myself and forget.

Let me know how it goes...even if you already think you take things easy.

Favourite thing today: apart from slowing down...The Beat My Heart Skipped - a most wonderful French film. Such a breath of fresh air from the crap I've seen lately. It is just brilliant. I'm not going to review it because I have little else to say other than brilliant. Just see it. See it, see it, see it!!!!!

Taking a Wee Break

I am taking a break for a while because I am in boring land at the moment. Not Melbourne! Just my life.

I am hibernating for two reasons:

1. I am sick

2. I am swamped with coming home cleaning, paper work, bills, shopping, visits to the vet and other organising-my-life duties.

As I have no contact with the outside world and my own life is in no way creatively inspiring right now, I have decided to spare you the goings on in my head as they are dull x a million and not type worthy.

But I have been reminded of something this week - how much I hate returning to the land of responsibility.

Favourtite thing today: those yummy Arnotts chocolate chip cookies that come in a big box. Warning: very easy to eat far too many of them.

PS If you want to fluff my ego by reading all my old blogs and leaving tonnes of comments, that might reinvigorate me for a healthy return next week. But if you don't want to indulge my needy, selfish whim, I'd totally respect that too and probably thank you later.

Goodbye Sydney

Ah sweet Sydney. My time has come.

My uncle always said "“Melbourne is like a Duchess and Sydney a whore. A whore is always fun for a short time but ultimately you want to go home to the Duchess."

I think there is some truth in that, but less this time than previous visits.

I will miss you Sydney.

I will miss the sheer beauty of this place, with it's vast structures, gorgeous architecture, lush tropical trees and waters reflecting golden lights at dusk. I will miss the razamataz and the sadness it covers up. I will miss the junkies lying asleep on the footpath in the Cross, flirting with death on an all time heavenly low. I will miss the guy with the three Jack Russells on a lead. I will miss my mad alcoholic friends. They are an inspiration to me and have kept me smiling for seven weeks straight. Beautiful, each and every one of them. I will miss the loneliness and desperateness here; the aching, needy camaradery. I will miss the passion and the energy. I will miss the Dumpling King and my local milk bar -– I light up every time I go in there. I will miss all the milk bars. I will miss the bouncer at Showgirls. I will miss dudes thinking that playing a stereo in the street equals busking. I will miss $5 films at Greater Union on Tuesdays. I will miss cheap pub meals. I will miss the Gaslight. Hell, I might even miss being man handled out of the Judgy. I will miss my girlfriends. I hate leaving the chics behind and the ones I've become close and closer to up here rock my world. I will miss the actor love-ins. I will miss my drug habit. I will miss my meetings with bank managers to organise yet another loan so that I might afford another $8 drink. I will miss the close proximity to everything. I will miss the deco buildings. I will miss the Lindt Concept Store. I will miss cheap breakfasts. I will miss the view from our apartment. I will miss the boot-over-jeans wearing clones. I will miss the dogs, as in The Dogs. "Come on Arica Bella! 'Atta girl! Come home to mumma!!!"” I will miss my voice -– lost it at the dogs. I will miss the friendly and efficient taxi drivers. Really! Except the one who barked at me that I was clearly unfamiliar with the Sydney CBD or I wouldn't be asking such questions. Won't miss him. I will miss the snugly little corner shops, cafes and pubs, tucked away so enchantingly in the side streets. I will miss the late nights. I will miss a few brain cells. I will miss the sunshine!

Sydney, you are a brazen slut. But you have a broken heart and the biggest smile, which I can'’t resist and I have so much fun with you. You have looked after me well. I love you. Look after your children as I care deeply for them and wish for them the brightest of futures and the deepest satisfaction in life.

Thank you.

XXXXX

PS Some parting advice: my time in Sydney did not come to naught. I found good coffee in Sydney! The Wall Two, corner of Campbell and Foster Sts, Surry Hills. Also Nest on Victoria St, Potts Point. Get into it.

PPS Sorry about late post-no internet connection. Hope you got to read Friday's post in the mean time. The 8th that is. x

The Reviews I Did and Did Not Write About Julius Caesar

The Review I Didn't Write:


$70!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

SEVENTY DOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRSSSS!!!!!!

Julius Caesar cost me $70 (including booking fee) as there are no concession tickets available on a Friday night.

Crikey Lord Almighty, that is over a third of my weekly budget. That is many meals. That is a lot of vodkas. That was a massive sacrifice.

Wish I'd bloody spent it on the voddies. Would've had WAY more fun.

Directed by Benedict Andrews at the STC, with a (wasted) stellar cast, this production hurt. Let me start by saying that my date had the same expression on her face as I did in Ruby's Last Dollar. Whilst it was not as bad as Ruby's I did spend most of my time fidgeting, wondering when interval was coming, wondering what on earth was going on on stage and even laughing at things that weren't supposed to be funny.

Lots of finger twinkling in this one. Mmm, lots of interesting movement work and interpretive theatre. Always love that.

It's never a good sign when you get half an hour into a play and have no idea what is going on or why Caesar's wife is a man. And why Caesar, for that matter, is a 102 year old skinny man. It's like killing the Pope. For god sake, just do it! I don't care if it was Arthur Dignam (and thank god he'll never read this because I not only know him but share a birthday with him), he SUCKED! Like nothing else.

WHAT WERE THEY SAYING?????

If anyone knows what the hell Julius Caesar was about, please let me know. I understood two actors last night, word for word: Paula Arundell and Ben Mendelsohn. Even the wonderful Robert Menzies was somehow lost in the production, in his weedy little red V neck. By the time we got to his monologues I was so bored I just didn't care any more.

And how much, pray tell, can you make of a set change?!?!? Just how long can you stretch it out in an already offensively long play?

This is what I have to say about the design:

DOWN bad togas! You look like grandma's wrinkly sheets draped sadly o'er such unattractive bodies.

AWAY green lights! I can't see anything and the play is sickly enough as it is.

OUT supurfluous microphone! Hanging so flacidly on the wall. I don't get you.

And Benedict Andrews, suck me. Have some faith in the bloody text. Shakespeare's been around a lot longer than you buddy. And give me my $70 bucks back. I shouldn't have to have a degree in wankerism to get your production.

As for you William. If it weren't for the fact that I love your plays and think that you are talented in an unparallelled way, I'd tell you to suck me too. But I could see that your poetic genius and insight had been sullied by a lesser man. So I forgive you.

The Review I Did Write:

Benedict Andrew's production of William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar at the STC is a bold attempt to venture into risky territory with this age old classic.

An incredibly accomplished cast have been chosen to interpret this story of power, loyalty, betrayal and love with a modern twist. They move fluidly and confidently accross the stark stage, engaging in repetitious gestural movement, cross gender representations, mask work and lengthy candle lighting exercises, mixing it up, as they say, to tell us this well worn tale.

Unfortunately this highly intellectual production did not always strike a cord with it's audience. The visually exciting choices did not augment the play and rather than help to clarify the story, they served only to confuse it. And us.

My hat goes off to Benedict Andrews for having the guts to try something so brave at the STC but ultimately Julius Caesar left those of it's audience, who endured the three hours twenty, baffled and busting for the toilet. It failed to move us.

Bombs, Ships, Love, Hate, War.

Has anyone seen the Kitty Hawk?

If you are in Sydney you may have been able to wander down to Woolloomooloo and check this monster out.

My head is swimming with war and terrorism at the moment, naturally, but I will spare you my thoughts and opinions as they are pretty obvious and probably shared by most of you.

I will however expand on the past few day's experience of the visiting navy.

I did wander down to see the Kitty Hawk aircraft carrier yesterday. It was the first time I've walked the length of that port, past the ships with such friendly names as the HMAS Tobruk and HMAS Success. I couldn't help thinking what I'd call my naval ship if I had one. Maybe the HMAS Let's Blow Shit Up. Or what about the HMAS Fuckin' Look Out! (Oopsy, the F word. I reckon I need that one. And I've earned it).

But if you hadn't told me that Kitty Hawk was a ship, I'd have had no idea. From where I was I couldn't make out the normal shape of a ship, it just appeared to be an ENORMOUS shopping mall. Or multi storey car park. For planes. To be honest it was like a grey, floating suburb.

This beastly thing was so huge it made the fighter planes on it look tiny! Like flies on a hippo's back. They were so ridiculously dwarfed. Ever seen a close up of a flea? They have parasites under the folds of the their crustaceous (made that word up but I like it) back as well. (So gross). Well, that, I imagine is what the itty bitty humans would look like, clambering into the bellies of the flies.

They had a Mr Whippy van down there to cater for all the tourists. Ah, the Harbour by twilight. So romantic. "Come on honey. Let's stroll along the port, hand in hand, check out the might of the USA's naval force and have an ice cream." Good day out for the kids too.

I've spent days battling my way through hordes of eighteen year old, pimply sailors in the Cross, feeling totally weirded out, thinking they're all just there to get their cocks sucked. These thoughts were not helped along by a conversation of a home boy overheard by a friend "I can get any fuckin Australian girl I want. Yeah, I can get Spanish chics, whatever. I can get anyone I want." So many kids with attitude and their dog tags hanging out.

But I also felt really sad seeing them all hanging out in their civies, just having a laugh and a beer and a half decent meal. They looked so young and innocent. Their faces looked so bright and relaxed. Just kids who want to have fun like the rest of us. It really hit me.

So last night I met a couple of them. They came over to sit near where me and my girlfriend were playing pool. They weren't making moves but were clearly trying to inch closer to the possibility of making friends. Twice I had to apologise for my arse being in one of their faces, in order to sink a ball. "Oh, that's OK" he replied, SO politely, casting his eyes downwards.

Tyrice and Juan.

Tyrice was a brother from Florida. Pristine white baggy shorts, t shirt and high top runners. Big, curly eyelashes. Nineteen years old.

Juan was from New York. Pristine NY Yankees ovesized baseball top and cap on. Monobrow. The sweetest, biggest smile ever. A four year old daughter back home. Twenty years old.

Both SO polite. SO sweet. So gentle.

These are some things we learnt: They are contracted to the navy for 4 years but can be called to serve for a further four. The food is nasty on board. There is no privacy ever. Boot camp is brutal, the navy is relatively cruisey, so long as you never see action. Not many of them ever want to see action. They joined up because it is a way forward in the States. They get a college education, a good wage, reputable and well respected training and various benefits. They had curfews and other restrictions in Sydney. They are off to Guam today. They miss home.

Tyrice builds bombs. He says he often thinks how many people they will destroy and injure. He thinks often of the death and destruction he, his army and his bombs will cause. He is fiercely patriotic but feels conflicted about some of his government's movements. He thinks that they were just there in Iraq as peace keepers, the Iraqis didn't like it so started blowing them up, so the Americans had to retaliate and do what needed to be done. (That was how the Iraqi invasion occurred. Okaaayeee.) He knows they are hated in Iraq. He tries to understand both sides of every conflict and respect his enemy's intentions. He is aware that for every soldier you kill, they have a family that will be devastatingly effected. This goes for both sides. "But, at the same time, it's a way to make a living."

So much opportunity in the land of freedom. Lucky buggers.

Juan works with the cables that grab the landing aircraft on board and enable them to stop. He has seen a cable break, the plane slide right off the edge of the ship and into the water and the cable snap back and slice a man's leg clean off in the process. He said "the navy don't lie to you when they are recruiting but they don't tell you everything. They don't tell you all the bad stuff that will happen." He misses his daughter like crazy.

I asked Tyrice what he'd been doing in Sydney. "Just looking for people to hang with". My heart sank. He didn't want his cock sucked, he just wanted some friends. Some company. Probably some love.

We had to go shortly afterwards and when we said our farewells, Tyrice looked like he might cry. Seeing that, I almost did myself. It was heart breaking.

They looked so out of place. So alone. These dudes would NEVER leave their country if it weren't for the navy. They didn't look hungry and curious like normal travelers - just lost. It occurred to me that not only are eighteen year olds strapping and fit for the army, but they have no sense of self. Perfect for brain washing.

I just felt so sad.

George Bush, reacting to yesterday's bombings in London despaired at the "evil" in people's hearts; people who can attack, wound and kill innocent civilians. Such a smart fella, bless him.

I'm right with ya Georgie. Perhaps you sould talk about that one at the G8. It's really not a bad point.

Favourite thing today: peace.

I Want to be a Fireman

I have always wanted to be a fireman. I love fires! I love practical jobs – jobs that you can be proud of, jobs that are necessary to mankind.

But most of all I love firemen.

Yeah baby, that uniform makes me weak at the knees. I start talking like a blithering idiot.

I have only enjoyed evacuating our building three times to the tune of ringing fire alarms at ungodly hours of the morning because the pay off is the big truck with the spunks in the baggy clothes. Axe wielding heroes. Manly sex machines who’ve come to potentially sweep me off my feet and carry me down flights of stairs then lay me down and make sweet…never mind.

There’s always a spunk in every station, at every emergency or even false alarm. (I swear it wasn’t me who set the alarms off! I was asleep!) Saw some at the station on Victoria St last night and had to look away coyly…then go change my knickers. They can be outdone by no-one. Except Gael.

The only Spanish I remember from my time in Spain is “Me incantan los bomberos”. Excuse me Spaniards if that is not precise but it translates as “I love firemen”. You gotta learn the essentials when you arrive in a new country.

Favourite thing today: well, that's a bit obvious really, isn't it?

What Women Want

Gael Garcia Bernal.

Pretty simple.

OK. I’ll be a little more detailed. My biggest challenge with this topic is where to stop. I could honestly go on for ever so I thought I’d keep it to the helpful and a little of the broader picture that might augment the rest. It's pretty earnest though. Mine will be a little love and partnership oriented as that’s we’re I’m at in my life and let’s face it, love rocks.

I am choosing to say “we” in this post and not “I” or “me” with the understanding that it is of course generalising, but I am fairly confident that most of what I say will be common to most women. Naturally details vary from person to person but…you get my point. I’m also referring to men but only because I am hetero. But most of what I say that doesn’t involve penii should encompass partners of both sexes.

So…

The key to what we want is respect. I believe respect comes from awareness and appreciation.

We want to be loved. We want to be adored. Even worshipped. We want to be treated like princesses. Not mothers. Not servants. Not whores (not out of the realm of kinky fantasy – and that’s only some).

We want to have fun, to be mentally and physically stimulated, to be challenged.

We want honesty. Another key. Keep it real.

Integrity, intelligence, grace, good humour…raw sex appeal.

We want men who don’t fall asleep after sex, who want to talk and cuddle and make us feel like there is more to us than sex (unless we only went home for sex). Better yet, who want to do it again. And again. And again and again and…

We want cock. And contrary to popular belief it’s not about what size that cock is, it’s about what that cock’s owner can do with it. So if you don’t have the master skills, go and learn them. Ask your women, your mates, your mum (oh god), your church leader, whoever you can…read a book (not FHM), read a girly magazine, look up Tantra, do whatever it takes to learn how to be a good lover.

Because we want to cum! We want slow sex, hard sex, rough sex, tender sex, all manner of kinky whatever-works-for-you sex.

And we want you to make love to us. This one does require love. Making love is even better than sex. Lovemaking brings people together in a state of spiritual euphoria and can enable transcendental experiences. It unites us in an indescribable way, eliminating the ego, is exhilarating and can be deeply profound. And so yummy!

We want to be surprised. We want to be treated. We want you to do anything to show that we are important and special.

We want men who can COOK! Sexy!

We want to feel truly ourselves around you.

We want to feel at home in your arms.

We want nick names that are ours only and make us go all gooey or feel flattered/special every time we hear them.

We want men who are trustworthy, responsible and reliable. Sounds so boring but if this underpins everything else then you can be as wild and free and able to have fun together as possible. Because we do want to feel secure.

We want men to hold us all night, caress our face, stroke our hair, tickle our back.

We want good head jobs and LOADS of foreplay.

We want to feel beautiful.

We want to come home after a hard day’s work once in a while and have the table laid, the wine poured, the dinner in the oven and the bath running. Or a foot massage.

We want to be equal. No we are not. No, it’s not femmo ra ra, it’s really simple. Wouldn’t you?

We want you to let us squeeze pimples on your back.

We want to get what we give which is usually a flood of love, care, attentiveness, tenderness, pleasure, loyalty, interest.

We want maturity.

We want men who are responsible for themselves. Who do their own washing, control their own finances, improve their own manners. Don’t rely on us to pick up after you, push you, control you. We’d rather not.

We want men who don’t live in squalor.

We want letters/poems/songs written about us/cheeky text messages.

We want you to communicate.

We want you to cry.

We don’t want cut, buff men with rippling six packs and biceps. Filthy. Yeah, fit is sexy but gym sculpted or body built is repulsive. If you can turn me on with your mind, if you can make me laugh til I wet my pants, if you can make sensational love to me and make me cum like a banshee I probably wouldn’t give a shit what you look like.

Mind you if you look like Gael, I’m there.

We want you to look after us when we are sick. Or when we are down.

We want you to make time for us.

We don’t want to come second to your mates. We don’t want to be a convenient addition to your routine – a bit of alright on the side. We want to be an integral, significant part of your life.

We want a man who knows how to touch, suck, stroke, lick breasts. Breasts are tender. They need to be handled with care and although some of us like it a bit rough sometimes, none of us like our nipples being chewed on a like a piece of liquorice or pinched or twisted almost clean off. Give back. You enjoy our breasts; let our breasts enjoy you. Be sensual. Worship with your tongue/hands.

We want men who listen. And remember.

We want men who do more of what we like (both in the sack and out), less of what we don’t and appreciate that if we say we don’t want to dress up in leather and bark like a dog for you, then we mean it. Please don’t expect us to do what every other girlfriend/friend’s girlfriend, stripper or porn star does.

We want respect.

We want men who look us in the eye and make us melt.

We don’t like filthy drunk men who stink and can’t get it up and stay in bed all day with a hang over.

We don’t want men who drink (a lot) every day. Or men who still think that getting pissed is really funny and there’s pretty much nothing else worth doing. That was for the age of 15 – 20.

We want to feel alive, excited, amazing, confident, loved.

We want to feel safe.

We want you to feel safe with us.

We want to feel like number one.

Yes, we want gifts. But it’s not about the gifts – it’s about the gesture. It’s about feeling that we are thought of and appreciated and making us happy makes you happy.

We like being flirted with and pursued. And romanced. And pinned hard up against a wall with passion.

We love a good kisser.

We like having our necks kissed, our ears nibbled, our thighs…oh, I better not get started.

We want your breath on our skin.

We want you to know where the clitoris is and what to do with it.

We want to be supported and nurtured.

We want to be tantalised.

We want you to know what you want.

We want respect.

Favourite thing today: Men.

Tuesday Night Fever

Pole dancing is really hard when you've got the flu.

REALLY hard.

I'm going home to die.

Things I Can't Say Out Loud...and Didn't

As much as I love having guests to stay on our fold out couch and them having to walk through our room to get to the bathroom, five days is stretching my hospitable nerves. We only have a week left here and we still haven't had sex on the balcony.

Uh oh, I was given strict instructions not to write about my boyfriend on my blog. Oh fuck, did I just write that? Oh shit, did I just say fuck? Oh fuck it, I might as well just throw it all out there and break all the rules by writing a list about why I shouldn't mention my boyfriend:

1. Because he values his privacy. If he wanted his life plastered all over the internet he'd start his own blog.

2. Because he probably doesn't want everyone knowing that he watches Big Brother. Hell, I wouldn't. Especially if I actually liked it too.

3. Because if I don't mention him, people might think I'm single and ask me on a date. Oh no, hang on. That doesn't make sense.

4. Because he is a big spunk and I love him more than anyone and he probably doesn't want the whole world to know that. Maybe he wants people to think he's single. Hmm...…

5. Because…I was told in no uncertain terms and I'm a good girl.

So, I will no longer mention my boyfriend on my blog. And if I write "we", you'll just have to imagine who I'm writing about because I shan't be any more descriptive than that. You'll just have to watch out for him on-

*watches in horror as computer is dropped from a great height by someone she can't mention*

*weeps uncontrollably over itty bitty computer pieces*

*finishes on someone else's*

*giggles cause she broke three rules in one blog*

x

Tip for the day: If you lose your internet connection or your computer is dropped from a great height and you are relegated to nerdy internet cafes, check out Global Gossip in the Cross if you is in the hood, are a heterosexual female or a homosexual/just curious and experimantal male, cause the staff here are HOT!

Favourite thing today: Mint. The cafe, not the herb. (Although I have much time for the herb). Crown St, near Cleveland. SO YUMMY!

There's Life Out There!

Dudes,

I'm back. Not promising anything good here, just got itchy to write.

Thanks for your support 'n stuff. I wasn't actually attention seeking, it just started as a cover up for the fact that I had nothing to say for a while. I dried up. I got a little claustraphobic too and had to get out into the real world a little.

Here are some things that I learnt whilst out there:

Girls, never take 4 Naprogesics on an empty stomach. I spent yesterday morning (the good part of a day that is) blaming the beer (instead of myself) for the violent hang over I had. Coupled with waves of period pain, I was writhing in agony and nausea and too unwell to get up to do anything about it. Finally I made my way next door to get said tablets and took two. After two hours they hadn't worked so I took another two with my coffee. I thought that my hang over got worse as the day went on but realised later that I had not eaten food and had in a sense poisoned myself, replacing one type of stomach cramp with another and giving myself a rather excrutiating case of diarhoea. It reminded me of the good old days in India.

Something else really weird happened to me out there. I saw a film in which I really liked Tom Cruise. Oh my god! I said it - "I liked Tom Cruise". I think he plays a loser screw up of a father really well. I'm serious! He still had a few cringey moments but he was mostly good in, yes, War of the Worlds.

So here's my quick low down on the film. Skip this paragraph if you don't want to hear it 'cause you want to see it. Two words:

SCAAAAAAAAAAAARYYYYYYYYYY!

AAAAAAAAAWESOOOOOOOOOOOOOOME! For two thirds of the film.

Yeah man, my chest was tight as all hell and I was jumping around with fright and gasping with terror. The special effects are wicked. Don't ask me why they didn't seem very scared when the first alien machine errupted from the earth. They seemed to be content to step back a little and look on in awe. I myself would have been shitting me pants. I pretty much was in the cinema. And don't ask me why some people's cameras and video cameras worked when every other mechanical/electrical device arrested - 'cause I can't answer either question. But I chose not to groan out loud at the plot holes (as I usually do) and to stick with it and I was SO sucked into the film...until Tim Robbins arrived. Oh dear. I won't say any more other than that the film went steadily down hill from there and, well, frankly (DON'T READ THE NEXT BIT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW!!!!!) the ending really sucked. I gotta tell you though that Dakota Fanning is my new most favourite actor in the world. Is it wrong to have a twelve year old idol?

The other reason I haven't written is cause we lost our dodgy internet connection. We managed to tune into someone else's airport for weeks but alas they have either moved or cottoned on. Writing blogs in an internet cafe is a) not cool at all and b) incredibly uninspiring. In fact, it's not cool at all being in here on a Saturday. What am I doing?!?!?!?!?! Hence the wibbly wobbly post today.

So I have one week left in Sydney, which is probably a good thing otherwise I might drink myself to death. (I'm going to join a church when I get home and clean up my act. This drug addiction deal hasn't gotten me ONE GIG! They have no idea.) I'm also starting to feel incredibly guilty about being idle for so long. And I'm broke. But I'm starting to get the sads. I have had such a great time here and will miss Sydney, the crazy bitch, and all of her naughty children. I better go before I start weeping into my computer and electrocute myself.

Favourite thing today: The Pip Branson Corporation. Definitely go see them when you next can in Sydney. They rock! And the bass player is hot. She is a bare footed, dress wearing, deep, dark red headed, funky bit of sexiness.