Baseball and Other Such...

...Bands.

That's it folks. Baseball the band, not the sport.

I know I have been absent and I apologise to my readers (both of you) but I have naught in my head worth sharing with any of yous cunts. Whilst my life has been full of pleasures and surprises lately, it has mainly been squashed to popping point with stress and thought overload. My time on the pooter has been dedicated to such joys as applications, research and serious letter writing...and perhaps pouring over photos of myself, "hmm, don't I look nice there?" Head shots my friends, not google goodies or porn shots. Professional vanity.

Anyway, I will again be absent for some time as I am fucking off outa here for a three day beach retreat and not long after to Shmadelaide to put my acting and pole dancing skills (a questionable use of that word but I'm sticking to it) to the test. Not telling you how or why, I'll leave that to the imagination.

But I couldn't resist sharing one last experience with you before I depart and that is the musical hilarity that had me giggling my night away last night:

Baseball!

They are a local* hard rockin, defying all stereotypes band. Too lazy to google I will just refer to them by their instruments: on lead vocals and thrash metal violin was David Tredinnick** in a troll wig, whipping up a tarantella frenzy on the floor (or O.D-ing on crystal meth - not too sure). He had me in utter stitches all night with his huge intense eyes, unintelligible loud and probably very important lyrics and violin mayhem, finishing the gig with about three strings left on his bow. Then there was the drummer who looks like a mid west American librarian named Connie, complete with tidy little blond hairdo, black rimmed glasses, pretty cotton blouse and a sweet, friendly and approachable "hi there, how can I help you today?" and "you have a nice day" smile, which got sweeter with every little look of delight and surprise when she hit a drum kit with the funny little wooden stick in her hand. I couldn't stop watching her. Who'd have thunk?!?!?!? She sat and sweetly hit the kit as Tredinnick conjured fire and demons and she occasionally let out an almighty burst of (pretty awesome, I must say) lyrics. I then started to imagine all the kinky shit she probably gets up to (and films) in a latex rubber cat suit. She was such good value. Then the female bass player and her swapped instruments and she mastered that fucking kit like nobody's business with an equally entertaining wide eyed look of concentration and delight. Awesome!!!!!!

They, along with The Night Terrors (do go see them) and Colditz Glider (don't bother) were just warming the stage for the awesome spectacle and musical feast of Spod. A must see!!!! He, as someone very dear to me pointed out, is a "male Peaches". He completely stands out from his black hoody covered hard rockin band with his suit and constant pouring of glitter and confetti on himself and his adoring audience, handing out roses and taking photos - camp as a scout in a tent. He is a truly fuckin' sick-arse, shit hot, unreal performer (I just couldn't say awesome again) and he never even broke a sweat! Fuck me if I could hear what he was singing about (I was pretty much deaf by that stage) but I can only assume it was sex. And now for the best part...he had three guitarists on stage! I will repeat that for the slow and the for the equally as excited as me: THREE FUCKING GUITARISTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I know I didn't say "fucking" the first time 'round and therefore shouldn't have misquoted myself with those little "", making myself vulnerable to all sorts of libel law suits against myself but this is my last blog for a while and I'll do what I want so get over it. Anyway, that's completely beside the point:

THREE FUCKING GUITARISTS!!!!!! And they rocked so good, so hard and so tightly that I wanted to scream. Actually I did.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH! More of that please.

And more of my Favourite Thing Today please: Corn thins with sweet chilli sauce, pickles and cheese gently melted under the grill. Yeah baby! Yes I am hung over. No I am not pregnant. They were made for me by a man and I'm pretty sure he's not preggas either.

Love you!

Take care out there in the big bad blog land.

XXXX

*there is only one local and that is Melbourne so get with the program if you haven't already.

**come on, you know it wasn't really him. At least I'm pretty sure...

Turtles Can Fly

Absolutely everyone should go and see Turtles Can Fly.

Everyone.

Everyone in the world.

Stupidity

I hope we never have a world war in our times. Any war. I hope our children don't either.

Old men's tears cannot even come close to convey the horrors that they saw and endured.

In the second world war, six out of two and half thousand prisoners of war survived a POW camp in Borneo. Six.

Nineteen hundred kamikaze pilots were deployed during the battle in Okinawa. They succeeded in bombing thirty six US naval ships. Presumably they all died.

It took two atomic bombs to end the war with Japan. They wiped out 200, 000 civilians, if memory serves me correctly, and then a further 200, 000 with the after effects.

At the end of WWII scores of Japanese citizens made their way to the emperor's palace and prostrated themselves on the ground to apologise for losing the war. Citizens.

Of the seven million Australians who populated Australia at the time, one million served in the war. I don't know how many survived.

In a war, no participant is innocent. All participants are victims.

No-one should be sent to kill and maim strangers and destroy nations, raping and pillaging along the way, leaving desperate relatives and loved ones at home, often dying alone in foreign countries.

Australia seems to have a history of serving in unnecessary wars and being sacrificed in unnecessary battles. We still do. Why do we let ourselves be used as clapping monkeys?

Even an Australian nurse who served in WWII was despairing at the fact that we, as a nation, don't seem to learn from our past mistakes. We continue to display the same stupidity and generate the same type of hatred, she said.

It is no comfort that we live in a passive, "safe", no-one-gives-a-shit-about-anyone-else, Howard voting country.

Nothing pains me more than old men's tears.

if I Were a Movie Star, La la la la la la...

I was pondering (desperately) the "In Production" listings at the back of the if* magazine on the plane back from Sydney** this Monday evening and a few questions came to mind. These were:

Gary Sweet?

Just wondering what, exactly, makes him so employable? I'm not sure I understand.

Do you have to be called "Sue" to become a producer?

What's in a Sue that makes a good producer?***

if anyone can enlighten me on any of these mysteries, I'd be very keen to learn a little more about my industry, especially if it will help me get ahead a little. Or even catch up.

*inside film magazine (they chose the lower case letters, not me).

** yes, it was lovely, thank you very much. Hung out with a bunch of wancyforks (pronounced "wanky", spelt with a c - a new word I learnt from the nine letter word game in the paper; an old fave of mine) all weekend and drank surprisingly little.

***There's Sue Maslin, Sue Milliken, Sue MacKay, Sue Murray,Sue Seeary (if it's a typo, it's theirs, but I know no better), Susan Cartsonis, Suzanne Todd, Suzanne Do, Suzanne Ryan, Susan Lambert and Stuart Freeman (Stu is the male Sue). And probably loads more but I got bored. Not one Darcy. Not that I want to produce. Just saying.

Me Incanta Gael

Oh Gael, I could watch you butter toast for six hours straight.

You ooze integrity. You heave masculinity. You sweat sex. You breathe Mexican. And you have the face of an angel, with those deep, sweet, honest eyes. Those eyes!

Have I told you lately how much I love you?

I have waited so long now for you to propose but it seems you are a little coy, so I will take it upon myself to ask.

Will you marry me?

Yes, I am taken, but I'm sure we could come to some sort of an agreement that involves sharing, Spanish lessons, tapas and muchos sex.

I can't wait much longer for you to roll your Rs on my cl- ahem, cling wrapped...gazpacho...that I made for you. Your favourite.

I finally got around to watching The Motorcycle Diaries and I don't care what anyone else says, I thought the film was stunning. And you completely arrested me.

You are an utter inspiration to me. You are my idol.

I have stolen some tools from work so I can build a shrine to you. Is that weird? If you think so, I won't do it. But you do deserve to be worshipped, if not deep fried, sugared and served con chocolat.

I just wanted to ask you one more thing Gael. If I were a leper, would you swim across the Amazon for me?

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

darce (Bernal)

xxx

It's All About Garlic

Fwaaaah!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Does anyone in Melbourne have any tits left on them?

Mine froze off ages ago. It is bloody fucking freezing.

Here's what you should all do - get this into ya:

You'll need a chopped spring onion, some chopped silver beet and swiss chard and some unidentified Asian greens, all from the garden, a couple of small organic broccoli florrets, three cloves of organic garlic, sliced, a table spoon of organic miso paste (try white and brown rice miso) and a little quality canned tuna. Sautee one clove of sliced garlic with all the greens, save a few leaves. Boil a bowl's worth of water and pour over miso in bowl. Mix it in. Add spring onions, raw broc (it will blanch, dont' panic), sauteed veg, the other two cloves of garlic, the left over uncooked greens and tuna.

Eat in front of TV and heater.

Watch new "bloody big ad" for Carlton beer and laugh your tits off, if you still got 'em.

All Things Good On Stage and Off.

There's a reason Frank Gallagher is one of my favourite actors; he is superb.

Just saw him carve up the stage in King Lear at the Malthouse. It is an MTC production and a mighty fine one, I must say. And believe me, you will not often hear me say that about their shows. I luckily saw it on a "good night" when all lines were remembered, no-one's nose was broken and no-one refused to do the show.

I almost gouged out the eyes of the women behind me, but that's another matter. After having an altercation with them at interval, I won the support of all the other local audience members and thus felt safe in the knowledge that I was not the unreasonable shrew that I was beginning to suspect I was. They were noisy you see. Cherry Ripes mid scene, rattling beads incessantly, drinking water loudly. FUCKIN' SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Never invoke the wrath of this one with your candy wrappers in a live show! Be warned.

Anyway, Frank, loose wire though he might be, is a genius and a master and most of the rest of the cast are wonderful. It looks and sounds shit hot. Hats off to Simon Phillips. Go see it.

Today was grim, grey, windy and cold in Smelbs. Everything was a slog. The pool was cold but I pushed on. I am, however, officially the shittest pole dancer in town. Everything hurts, but not as much as it will tomorrow.

Yey for tomorrow.

Favourite thing today: Mountain Goat Old Surefoot stout. God's nectar. Two years ago the alcohol supplier to the shop I worked in knew I had a taste for this blessed, dark chocolatey caramel sex in a bottle. He bought me in 2 of their 170 exclusive long necks to be cellared. I was going to enjoy one that year and put the other away but (and I have no idea how this happened) I discovered that I still had both of them last night and promptly necked a whole necky. Oh! Is there not a better word than "yum"?

Across the World and Back in Two and a Half Weeks

I feel like I have had my chest blasted wide open this week at MIFF. It is an amazing feeling. My heart has been given the worlds tightest squeeze and release, has been thrown around the room at rapid speed and has been stroked tenderly as it wept. My mind has been sent soaring around not only the world but through so many people's lives and so many issues and ideas and my eyes have been spoilt, teased and offended. I have been given a general all round spiritual, emotional, cultural, intellectual work out.

I have always loved MIFF but never have I been so profoundly effected by it. I have never before been struck by the enormity of what I learn and take on in these glorious two and a half weeks. Not only do we get treated to films from across the world and so get to relish in a diversity of art and style but we get an insight into a multitude of countries and are simply stretched so far in so many ways.

I really feel like I have been away...on a world tour. I feel like so many people have opened their front doors to me and let me stay. I have been so intimate with so many people, I have felt so much pain, delighted in so many images and events, laughed so hard with people who's language I don't speak, danced with them, feared for them, wanted to save them, even taken drugs, eaten noodles and smoked shit loads of fags with them.

A brief update on the rest of my fest:

Kissed by Winter: Another film highlight for me. A Norwegian/Swedish (debut!) masterpiece by Sara Johnsen. A truly stunning and brilliantly made film. Look out for it.

Los Muertos: From Argentina. Strange. Slow. Challenging. Observational. Quite interesting. Hmm...

Hidden: A bit of a French disappointment by Michael Haneke, I must say.

3 Iron: From South Korea/Japan by Kim Ki-duk. Almost really beautiful but a bit too annoying in parts to be so. I loved Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter...and Spring though - the last film of his I saw. But what's that got to do with this year? On with the show...

The above was supported by Blue Tongue: boring. Has Cannes lost the plot?

Election: closing night bang bang Triad film from Hong Kong director Johnnie To. Yeah, good film and stuff but super violent and I've seen it all before. How many gangster movies do we have to see before we get it? Like um...so, violence is bad, so are mafias, it's a never ending cycle of death, destruction, insecurity, deceit, crime and blood shed? Maybe if you don't have anything new to bring to light, don't? I dunno, some people are always entertained by all that shit. Strangely no-one in my party was.

Lomax the Song Hunter: well didn't I weep my Sunday morning away? What a gorgeous documentary by Dutch Rogier Kappers about an American man Alan Lomax who dedicated his life to recording folk music and songs around the world. The subject matter of this one blew me away and thus you will now get a rant from me (or not - your choice of course).

Music is one of those wonderful international languages. Although it differs from country to country, the emotions, if not the stories are always conveyed through the sounds and tones. And it is SO powerful. It is one of the most motivating forces in the world, as well as one of the most uniting. It unites our rhythms, our energy, our voices, our feet and hips, our feelings and sentiments and sometimes our purpose. It is without a doubt one of the most important elements of my life.

It was both awesomely inspiring and incredibly sad watching these folk singers across the world, for so many reasons. Firstly I felt like their souls were laid bare for us. To be allowed to witness that is so fortunate and so, so moving. It felt so pure. There is no pretense in folk music. I'm not talking about hippy shit here, I'm talking pure, traditional folk singers who tell the tales of their people and place. This was not music for sale. It wasn't owned by anyone - it was collective and there was therefore no ego in it.

I'm already talking in the past tense and that is because it is so rapidly disappearing. This was the heart breaking part of the film. We are so lucky that certain enthusiasts in the last century got in on time and recorded and filmed some of these people and their songs before they all die and take them with them. No one gives a fuck any more.

I felt this acutely when I traveled the world. I felt so privileged to bare witness to some of the last remaining members of the old school. The old ways. Tradition. Simplicity. Old dudes. I LOVE them! I have a deep passion for old people - they make me weak. Old men out in the wintry Irish fields with their hats and boots on, playing the whistle in the pub at night; fat women in aprons in Greek thresholds or picking olives in the fields; wrinkly old women in Africa laughing wickedly; an old Nepalese man singing a half hour non-stop song with a two stringed instrument, proudly sitting up in his traditional dress beneath the stars, in front of his whole village, myself and one other girl from Canada who was recording him; silent old Aboriginal men sitting in the desert sand; women wailing in grief across Indian mountain valleys...all these blessed ways that are being gobbled up by the ugly face of "progression" with all it's machinery and technology. Everyone is being homogenised into a big, lonely, aimless globalised mess.

And so I developed a real anxiousness in my travels. I wanted, suddenly, to see the whole world and now. And I wanted to save it. It's just all going so fast.

This film just hit me on almost every level I exist on.

One of the most beautiful elements of the film was Kappers retracing Lomax's foot steps through villages and replaying the recorded music to the people who sang them years previously. We got to watch these old faces light up as they listened to themselves or their parents on shiny modern head phones or portable stereos. Some cried. Some giggled with delight. All were blown away. A gathering of old folk in one Galician village erupted into dance out of sheer joy, with all the exuberance of the youthful version of themselves that they were listening and dancing to. One old man went to collect his bag pipe and it was on for young and old. I had gone to pieces by this stage. I can't even begin to tell you how beautiful it was.

Apart from raising the issue of big music companies somewhat stealing and destroying the freedom and joy of music these days, Lomax made a really interesting point about how much power the very few in this world who have ownership of or access to a radio transmitter have compared to the millions who have radio transistors. The former chooses what we will listen to and does all the communicating and the latter does all the listening but, unlike in normal society, cannot talk back. (Let's not get into talk back radio here). He singled this out as one of the great reasons for loneliness in these modern times. Perhaps that is going a little far but he does have a bloody good point.

Instead of gathering together in rooms, squares and ale houses and talking and singing together, people sit in isolation and listen to music pumped at them from sometimes miles away, by a stranger.

We are such a lonely society. Sure some of us go to the pub or the footy or other social events but essentially we applaud and encourage independence. We sit for hours on our computers "communicating" to often faceless strangers. We watch other people on TV, frequently on our own. We drive our cars alone. We don't know most of our neighbours...we have killed community.

It's not a dirty word: community.

I lived in Galway for a short while and it was one of the happiest times of my lives. Hardly anyone had land lines as they were too expensive to put in and even when they did you'd pay (the phone booth) in 30 second increments there. Mobiles were expensive to call too, so instead you'd just wander to their house. And if they weren't there you were bound to find them in one of four pubs and would generally know which one on any given day. Nights were spent drinking together in the warmth of the pubs but the drinks were just an excuse to be there and TALK. And sing. And laugh. And, of course, sometimes cry. (Mind you the talking was sometimes just an excuse to stay there and drink, however...don't ruin my story). Everything encouraged face to face communication; shoulder to shoulder music. It was such a joy. I felt so rich there.

I do despair at what we're losing but this film just reminded me to stop running so fast - to appreciate what I've got. Not to take anything for granted.

It made me want to sing more.

Favourite thing today: Life, love and Bonnie 'Prince' Billy. Now THAT was a truly brilliant gig.

Top Ten Turn Ons/Turn Offs

I got tagged. Must say, I'm not sure I want to do this. So I'll sneak it in on a Saturday and see if anyone notices. How am I supposed to limit myself to 10? There are millions. Oh well, here goes:

Top Ten Turn Ons:

1. Intelligence

2. Nice eyes

3. Dancing

4. Good manners

5. Italians

6. Musicians

7. Brunettes

8. Flesh (especially a naked torso)

9. Other languages

9.25 Food

9.5 Brilliance ie/ someone who is really good at what they do

9.75 Stamina (in bed, in life)

10. A man who knows how to touch a woman


Top Ten Turn Offs:

1. Big egos

2. Pink Polo neck T-shirts with the collar turned up

3. Bad kissers

4. Racists

5. A man who can't/won't give good head jobs.

6. Insincerity

7. Big Brother Watchers

8. Social climbers

9. Small mindedness

9.5 Leerers

10. Liars

Would I be the world's worst party pooper if I didn't tag anyone? If I get an overwhelming "YES BITCH!" answer to that by Monday then I will. It's just that it feels a little like chain mail, which I detest.

Favourite thing today: my lunch. A definite turn on. You must try it! How's this for surprise yumminess? I call it Make What You Can From What You've Got: 1 piece of fresh Turkish bread sliced in twain and grilled, about 5 pods worth of fresh organic peas, blanched, lettuce from the garden, Sirena tuna in olive oil, the remains of the real egg mayonnaise, a scrape of olive paste, organic avocado. Combine in sandwich fashion and eat with glee. Lick lips. Smile.

Even Slower

I'm fascinated with this slow business.

In my mind I am so there. I live in the country, probably in Tuscany or the south of France and spend loads of time cooking and sewing and reading and telling stories to my grand children by the fire.

In reality I rush around the city like a lunatic, eating on the run, trying to sueeze far too much in my week, struggling to keep up with the cleaning and I don't even have kids, let alone grand kids.

I do, however, have two pets, the K9 one of which gets more or less dragged through the streets these days as I'm always in more of a rush than him.

But I keep trying. I tried a bit of slow cooking the other night. Yeah, it turned out a bit like sloppy seconds (say these last two words like Gareth from The Office to make them particularly funny), but I bloody tried.

I used to brew shit slowly all the time - mulled wine, chai tea. Not much any more.

Who has time?

But slow is good: food, sex, wine, sunsets, motion (motioN! No S. I love slow motion - makes everything look better), walks, torture, traffic. Nah, slow traffic can suck me. HURRY UP!!!!!! Mother fuckers.

I'd love to book in for some of the winter food festival slow cooking courses but I can just see myself running in the door, panting and sweating.

I cooked an apple crumble last night. Is that slow? It was bloody delicious. It took about half an hour in the oven. Tell me that's slow. I mean, how many hours are there in a day? Speaking of which, I want more hours in the day, more days in the week, more sleep, more (some) sex...

And by the way, if you love me and you EVER see me post that I am dashing to the supermarket for late night chocolate runs again, stop me!!! I will inevitably buy too much and eat it all and get sick. Add some crumble and ice cream on top of that and my liver (not to mention my hips) will be screaming. Things are not looking good when I eat this much chocolate. Definitely not a happy chicky.

Can't believe I even posted today, I'm so cranky. I've got the shits with life...in case you hadn't already noticed.

Favourite thing today: swimming outdoors in winter. I got back in the pool today after nursing a boring neck injury for the last couple of months. Chased my visible breath through the cold, cold, must-be-snowing-somewhere, wet Melbourne morning as I rode there, feeling very under clothed in my cotton sweats, full of trepidation. Started with a spa (not in the dirty blogcestuous manner, but a warming-the-tired-muscles manner) then goggled up and dove right into the steam covered pool and did my laps beneath the grey, drizzly sky. It was so warm in there and of course, very empty. Can't swim indoors. I used to cross town on a train in London just to swim outdoors...in winter. Used to trek accross town in winter here too when I lived on the *mumbles* other side of the river. You gotta try it before you call me crazy, it is SO worth it! You will feel amazing when you get out.

See, I can always look on the bright side of something.

That Skanky Ho Called Money

Money is a cold hard bitch. She is a dirty little temptress; a dominatrix in a tight PVC outfit with luscious white breasts pouring forth, just begging to be touched. But dare not! For if you do she will kick you in the spine with her sharp, sharp stilettos.

I hate her.

She is a fucking slave driver and I am tired of being on the end of her leash. This week she tightened my collar another notch to the point at which I was suffocating.

She gives the impression that she makes the world go round, that we need her and every inch of happiness depends on her and thus we run around desperately trying to get some more of her in our lives and living every second for her. Even though I don't believe her, for I know that her sweet, sweet counterpart Love makes the world go round, she twists my arm til I'm back on her miserable tread mil, running, running, out of breath, trying to catch her but ultimately running towards nothing. If she's not flashing her tits in my face, she's cracking her whip on my back.

Yeah, sure she makes a great hand bag at opening nights and excellent company on overseas trips. She'll tell you "you look great in that darling, you MUST have it" as she passes you good French champagne. "Quality! Quantity!" she demands, "more is more!" She makes you feel fabulous when she's around. Always winking at you in a crowd, disappearing behind reflections in shop windows, forever dining at the best restaurants and beckoning you to join her with a lick of her plump, wet lips. Sure she'll cuddle up to you on your Egyptian cotton sheets and nibble at your ear but good luck holding onto her. Before you know it she'll be running off again and you will be chasing her like a desperate child.

She's not yours! Everyone wants her! She is a foul slut.

So you try to play it cool for a while, pretend she's not the only one, make like you're not looking and you have friends in higher places. Eventually it starts to work, her charm starts to wear off and you start to relax a little, stretch your wings, regain your mojo. But just as it does, just when you least expect it she swishes past you in a new dress, looking a million dollars.

"I'm not looking" you say. But you can't help it. You try and try but she drops something which makes a lovely "ping" sound; something small and shiny. The light catches your eye and you can't help but look down as she bends slowly, gracefully to pick up the glittering object and as she does her perfect nipple just pops out of the dress. That nipple. The one that was whispering against your lips not long ago. Without even realising it you reach out to touch the creamy goodness as though your hand has a life of it's own. But she's off. And you're hooked again, following her, panting, wanting.

Bitch, slut, cunt!

She has totally ruined my week. She has broken my back, darkened my eyes, sullied my soul and distracted me, as she so often does, from what really matters. I have carried around such anger lately for not being able to find her as she refuses to answer my calls. But all I do is chase her. She's so good at making me think she is the most important one; the sexiest ever, even when she is not here.

SCREW HER!

I refuse to play her game any more! I WILL have fun without her tomorrow. I am going to call my friend Love, who is always good for a laugh and always there for me. She has never run away. She needs no pin code. She is reliable, honest and such a dag...and I adore dags. I never have to dress up to impress her and she gives the greatest hugs. She even makes Poverty a better person when she's around him. She's the best.

Fuck you Money. You may be manipulating the entire world into war but you will die with a guilty conscience.

I want to breathe again.

more MIFF

OK, this time I'm for real - the promised MIFF response thus far:

(Sorry un-Melbourne folk, not just because you're not from here but because this may be boring and irrelivent to you.)

Anyway, let's keep it brief...

I don't think I mentioned that Oscar was supported by a short US documentary called Dimmer about blind teenagers. Stunning.

Electric Edwardians: Archival doco footage of everyday people doing every day stuff in about 1905. Wicked. Presented with a live score performed by the composers, UK twins called In The Nursery. If I knew anything about anything I'd link you to them but if you're a filmy music enthusiast look them up 'cause they're pretty awesome. Meditative and wonderful.

Jewboy: fifty minute Australian film by Tony Krawitz about Chassidic jew boy gone a bit off the rails. Really quite wonderful. You'll all get to see it on SBS later this year, if not somewhere else. They've been tarting around Cannes too. Ooh la la.

Stranger: did they call it Stranger because it's bound to be stranger than the last film you saw? It wasn't that strange. In fact it was quite intriguing but ultimately ambiguous and odd. It just dropped a lot of things it set up - ideas and forms etc. Anyway it was Polish/German, by female director Malgosia Szumowska about a pregas chic communing with her unborn child, loopy dad, uncommunicative mother and drop kick boy friend.

Geeze, I'm good at this hey?

Blood and Bones: Japanese film by Yoichi Sai about struggling Koreans in Japan early last century, in particular one cunt of a man played by Takeshi Kitano (brilliant and terrifying) who basically bashed, raped and abused his way through life and thus the film. Too slow, got boring, I left.

Look Both Ways: Well I can't rave enough about this Aussie flick written and directed by Sarah Watt. It is just divine and restored my faith in Australian cinema. You MUST see it when it comes out in general release. You'll love it. I'm not saying anything else.

Princess Raccoon: why didn't they call this one Stranger 'cause it was way stranger than Stranger. In fact it was the strangest film I ever did see. And so bad. SO bad. I ended up laughing AT this film and leaving. It was musical, trippy, fucked up shit.

Public Toilet: OK time for another good film now. Can't believe I sat through the whole film because it was torturous. One of Fruit Chan's, it was supposed to use public toilets to link stories and explore people's lives but the film seemed to focus more on Hong Konganese dudes trying to find magic cures for sick loved ones. It looked like shit and there was more shit in it than I could bear - and I mean that. We had to watch people shit and swim through shit and all sorts of shitty stuff and frankly I didn't want to. Fruit, maybe you could consider a new name? I mean, Fruit? And while you're at it, an editor? The man's got heart though, I'll give him that.

This film was made worse by the smell of someone's breath near me. That's the second time it's happened to me this festival. I HATE the smell of people's breath wafting past me when I'm watching a film. Close your mouths you animals.

I love the sound of the projector whirring around though.

So, my tips for the festival are: bring a water bottle, wee before you go in and if anyone starts telling you this is his sixth film today, run the other way. Especially if it's the second time he's sat near you.

I've run out of chocolate. This is a problem. Better go.

Favourite thing today: the proximity of my supermarket.

PS Has anyone got a free ticket to Sigur Ros they could spare?

As Promised...

As promised I am going to fill you in on some of the highs and lows of my 2005 MIFF experience thus far...

Ah screw it. I'll do it tomorrow. I'm too tired.

The dark rings under my eyes are hanging to an all time low and sinking to an all time depth.

At least I've still got great tits.

Has anyone got a job for me? I'm really over labouring. I don't care how good I look in plaits with an electric drill in my hands straddling all things under construction - my back hurts. Please? Preferably an acting job.

Anyone?

*looks in mirror*

*cries*

*goes to bed, lonely and broken and ma-*

Who Started This Stupid Blogging Idea Anyway? Cunt

This fucking blogging shit keeps me up all night.

I'm supposed to be in bed so stop writing such good stuff everyone, you're pissing me off.

I have a life!

Had one.

PS this is an andry second post. Beneath is the real one.