The Semi Naked Truth

The Only Light

2006-03-10T00:28:00.000+11:00

When the world is crashing down around you and you are quietly imploding internally, there is only one thing left to bring a moment's joy into your life: Vegemite and avocado on a corn thin.

It is pure. Pure, unadultered gold and sunlight. It gives one a reason, the only reason she has, for getting out of bed.

As life has turned a very dark shade of black and the temperature has plumetted well below zero, I shan't be 'round to play for while.

x

Ouch! That's My - Oh Yeah, I Asked You To Do That Didn't I?

2006-02-07T23:07:00.000+11:00

So, lying on a bench the other day, wearing a paper g-string (think small, linen, waist high Japanese cock pouch - VERY wrong) with my knees pulled up to my chest and a stranger attentively pouring hot, hard wax and prodding me around the labia majora, perinneum and such regions (that we don't usually love to mention when they're our own, especially in such a distastefully clinical and non sexual way), my glory spread to the heavens, feeling about as fucking exposed, vulnerable and ridiculous as one could POSSIBLY EVER FEEL, I decided, between gasps, 'what better way to distract said stranger from my anguish/hole(s) than to introduce the topic of film criticisms?'

And thus I launched into my take on Brokeback Mountain: "yeah, nah, yeah, good...? Yeah it was good. Didn't really blow me away though."

Fuck, conversation over. Thoughts of two hotties getting it on in the mountains surely can't distract her for that long. In fact she might get carried away and start crying over my giney or get aroused... Ummmmmmm... Shit!

So I quickly jumped in with "And I plan on seeing Walk the Line tonight."* That'll get her, I thought. Yup.

Oh jeeze. I ran out of things to say so just tried to control my breathing and not to cry with humiliation.

* I did in fact see it and it was AWESOME!!!!!!! Fucking brilliant. One Joaquin is worth ten Jake and Heaths. Both he and Reese Witherspoon are brilliant and the movie is amazing in every way.

This blog successfully includes the longest sentence I ever did write (yeah whatever Steve Martin), the most embarrassing truth about my self yet exposed and the weirdest format for film review ever. Go darce!

Favourite thing today: just to turn another corner (hell why not)... Switch Board for one of the hottest coffee experiences in town.

Kings of Leon and other Adventures of Darcy

2006-02-02T19:27:00.000+11:00

A wee absence. Let me just say that funding applications are a sure way of driving you to the land of fucking boring, where one gets old.. fast.

So Kings of Leon. I think I'm getting too old for live gigs where there are no seats. I think I always was too old. Why was I born old?

The only reason some teenager didn't get my broken Becks bottle rammed into their eye was because THEY ONLY SERVE DRINKS IN PLASTIC CUPS after 10pm at the frickin' Palace. What kind of a palace is that? Not one fit for a princess like me, that's for sure. Nor, indeed, my fair prince.

I survived a set and a half of fuckin' shit boring support acts before squeezing my way out to the back where I could get some breathing space with the adults.

And yeah, they were pretty good but if they didn't tell us how much fun they were having up there (way more than Sydney apparently - YEAH!), I'd have never guessed. They were better than comedy night at the Brunswick Hotel but not as good as Bonnie "Prince" Billy's gonna be! Ears are still ringing today - don't you hate deaf sound mixers?

A late review of the Big Day Out: I tried to throw my phone number at M.I.A and her sexy side kick but it bounced off someone's head. Getting wet just thinking about them up there. HOT!!!!!

It's always nice to catch a glimpse of someone's head on the main stage. That way you really know they're there.

Go! Team were the no team.

Iggy... well if you like your steak over cooked...

Beer and ice cream - FAR TOO EXPENSIVE!!!!

Last B.D.O I reckon.

That's all I squeezed into my life beyond rehearsals and application land. Don't be jealous.

Favourite thing today: my osteopath. I think I want to make love to him.

Hmmm

2006-01-24T22:00:00.000+11:00

I like my smell.

All of them.

Does Cate Blanchett Ask Herself These Questions? Probably Not.

2006-01-24T19:22:00.000+11:00

I think acting is one of the weirdest occupations ever. I really do.

(Aparently weirdest is not a word but for the purposes of this, it is. OK?)

I am constantly asking myself why I am doing it and swinging between unbridled passion and enthusiasm (less of the latter as the years go by) and utter confusion.

I mean, to start, it's make believe. But we frequently take it very seriously. I was sitting around with a group of rather fabulous actors today, a rather fabulous actor/director and a fabulously fabulous actor/writer, discussing the psychology of the scenes and lines and their meanings and the back history and BLA BLA BLA!!!!!! Whilst I also take this very seriously, well perhaps serious is a little bit of a misrepresentation, but I do engage in it and offer insightful, intelligent and hilarious comments whilst throwing up challenging questions and possibilities (as you can imagine)... but I digress - where was I? Ah yes, whilst I also engage in this I am frequently struck with the ridiculousness of it and have to stop myself from blurting out "BAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH. WHATEVER!!!!!!!!!" and running around the room like Ken Bruce with my pants down.

Then there's the whole "career" thing. What a fucken' joke. There are about seven actors in Australia (even though they're in America) making a career out of it. Making a living that is. I frequently hang my head in shame and mumble under my breath that I am an actor because I find it hard to take seriously as a job and even harder to call myself one when I am in fact selling fruit and vegetables or renovating cafes. And I fret and sweat over where my next job will come from, if I will ever work again and if I will ever get a role that I actually like. The only one year of my life where I survived entirely off acting and didn't have to resort to any other jobs was on a job which was probably the lowlight of my acting curriculum vitae and which I was deeply disappointed in and embarrassed of.

Then there's trying to take yourself seriously as you enter stage left and act all real and listen and remain "present" whilst trying to find your light and not bump into the furniture then exit and carry on as you were, returning to your game of sudoku in the dressing room.

Then there's celebrity and fame and I won't even go there cause it's a quagmire and thankfully I don't have to deal with it.

The upside is that when you are a part of a great show/film/(are there any great Australian TV shows? I"m sure there have been) you feel exhilarated. You are telling stories and taking audiences somewhere and WAIT! Please stay with me here! It's true. Acting is entertaining/informative/reflective/challenging/healing... all sorts of fucking wonderful things and, dare I say it, enormously important for us all.

Imagine a world with no TV, theatre, films, satires!

But still. I think I've done one of those in the past five years.

It's weird and wonderful and offensive and exciting and demanding and silly and fun and fucked.

Truth is I never feel wholly myself until I'm doing it.

Favourite thing today: having an acting job.

(I could have gone on forever on this one but I thought I'd keep it brief. Life's too frickin' short.)

Last Weekend of my Holiday

2006-01-22T23:41:00.000+11:00

The only way to cope with a weekend inside a fan forced oven is to eat frozen things all day, take a plunge in the teeming urban version of heaven (The Brunswick Baths) and drink Cerveza with lime whilst playing backgammon with a hottie.

The only way to cope with turning up to a "Dirty" thirtieth in a suit jacket and tie (sans top, avec saucy bra), high heels, seemed fish nets and raunchy knickers (you got it, no pants/skirt) and cum (moisturiser) dribbling out the corner of my mouth and down my chin and finding a roof top of mother fuckers, NONE OF WHOM ARE DRESSED UP, is to make like I am BETTER than Bridget Jones and just fucking act normal.

I was, needless to say, popular.

Favourite thing today: my spray bottle. Fill a spray bottle with water and squirt yourself and sheets periodically during the day/night. Especially good with a fan. Brilliant.

I Wanna Bust Out Too!!!!

2006-01-19T22:26:00.000+11:00

Having just finished Shantaram (finally!!!!!) I opened the paper today to read about two other recent jail escapees:

Robert Cole (also known as Andrew David Robertson; mysteriously not unlike author of Shantaram, Gregory David Roberts), who starved himself, in a matter of weeks, into a pint sized super model prisoner so he could squeeze out between the edge of his cell window and it's external bars. Thankfully Who Magazine was not around at the time to take photos of him by the prison pool and therefore his diet regime went unnoticed til he slipped from his room, scaled a wire fence, climbed another, walked along it and jumped over the edge to his freedom, leaving in his a wake a bundle of pillows under his sheets. (My mum would never have fallen for that one). He was so small that not even the security cameras or motion detectors picked him up. Do we think he CSIRO dieted his way to freedom? Or was it the blood group diet? At any rate, look out fatties! I think we've just found ourselves Australia's Biggest Winner!!!!

Then there was a return to jail for Christopher Dean "Badness" Binse who has successfully escaped from prison or hospital security wards no less than SEVEN times!!!! Fuck me dead! He must love the place though, or maybe it's the challenge of getting out again. He only got out of jail last February (in a limo). This time he threatened to kill two strippers at Spearmint Rhino and took a bullet out of his gun to leave at the scene. Huh? And they think Cole is a sicko.

I can't wait to see how he gets out this time.

Anyway, Gregory David Roberts escaped over the front frickin' wall of Pentridge in broad day light! Don't worry if you haven't read the book, I'm not giving anything away here.

So I've decided that if I ever go to jail, I am definitely busting out! I've got a middle name and everything! Have any women escaped from jail in Australia? In the mean time I have compiled a list of things to do in prison:

1. Lose weight

2. Get fuck off fit

3. Read loads and fast track another degree... something useful this time.

4. Get over my fear of masturbating in a room full of women.

5. Get religious.

6. Get unreligious

7. Seduce a guard

8. Write love letters to my beloved (not the guard!!! My beloved on the outside!)

9. Meditate

10. Get a tat or three

11. Start a food fight in the mess hall

12. Make a number plate

13. Start a jail yard choir

14. Campaign for organic meals

15. Avoid getting my head kicked in

16. Let a lady touch me in my swim suit area

17. Find out what Jika Jika means anyway

18. Do some movement workshops with the prisoners. No wait a minute, I just re read 15. Scrap that. Ummm... howl at the moon

19. Grow my pubes down to my ankles (could be handy in my escape)

20. Befriend a rat (could also be handy)

See yous cunts on the other side!

Favourite thing today: Shantaram. You simply gotta read it. It's amazing.

Am I Back?

2006-01-18T21:33:00.000+11:00

... I Don't Know.

I just thought I'd test the waters.

I wrapped my dog poo in Leyton Hewit's face today and it gave me such pleasure. (I don't even care if I spelled his name incorrectly. Suck it Leyton!)

I am back... in Melbourne that is. Been blissing out in Lorne with blissful people (the ones in my house, not in town), blissful weather, blissful food, blissful views and fresh air and a dog that makes me laugh hourly. Been as blissed out as one can be with a bung neck... like a blissed out nanna. That's me. Ahhhh... Codeine. How I love thee. Bliss.

Before that it was worksville, hence the absence.

Christmas was ace, New Year's was acer - very grown up, until we broke into the Brunswick Baths. Did I say that out loud? It wasn't me!

Gettin' ready to start full time rehearsals so no promises on the blog front.

My new year's blogsolution is to blog when I want, about what I want, in the manner I want.

So what's new darce?

Well, it means that I don't care if you don't like irregular posts, I'm not going to drop in on anyone to let you know I'm around and I'm going to try to avoid writing crap for the sake of writing. So we'll see how it goes. I am periodically confused by what the hell I am doing in the blogosphere anyway so... I'm gonna cruise.

Happy New Year dudes. (I am aware that I may be talking to myself here.)

Favourite thing today: my tomatoes. They've gone sick.

Correction

2005-12-08T22:02:00.000+11:00

George Michael.

GEORGE!

You'll know what I mean if you were offended/puzzled by the original mistake and otherwise there is little need to know.

I have no excuse. I have very vague moments and my brain struggles with names... always. It just generally struggles actually.

I have been swept up in the end of year Christmas insanity and have decided that I might call it a Summer break in blog world so until I have a rampant urge to say something, I will probably be mostly absent.

Love your work. Have a great weekend and go nuts this Christmas.

darce xxx

Why I Have Decided to Become Mauritian

2005-12-08T13:17:00.000+11:00

1. So I can be a sexy, black, Creole, Bhojpuri or French speaking man. Ah... woman.

2. So I can be one chilled out mother fucker.

3. So I can believe that "all problems are better solved with a smile".

4. So I can live on a tropical island with a stable economy and fuck off white sand beaches, surrounded by reefs.

5. So I can smoke dope for breakfast and not freak out.

6. So I can drink rum and Coconut Creole and Banana Coladas.

7. So I can eat Jackfruit Curry, Swimmer Crab Bouillon, Salt Fish in Tomato Sauce and Taro Fritters.

8. So I can make people melt when I speak/smile.

9. So I don't beat myself up for writing a blog when I should be cleaning sticky shit off my windows.

10. Just 'cause.

*books ticket and solarium session*

Favourite thing today: You guessed it.

Yeah Baby

2005-12-05T08:27:00.000+11:00

There's not much point fantasising about women when you have a boyfriend, is there?*

Did anyone notice I wrote two blogs on Friday, having just lamented my lack of blogspiration?

Wow.

*I've just realised that my boyfriend doesn't read my blog anymore so I can pretty much get away with saying whatever I like now. Woo hoo!

Stackular Spectacular and Other Divine Moments in my Day.

2005-12-01T19:10:00.000+11:00

I took a spectacular stack on my bike this morning. Actually, it was perhaps not so spectacular as it was retarded. I was riding home from the pool and had bought a paper on the way but had nothing to carry it with so held it and my bike handle in my left hand. Tried and failed to get it under my arm in time to brake for the road/passer-by but couldn't co-ordinate it and, like a dick, slammed on my brake with right hand only (a big bike no-no) in order to avoid stacking into said passer-by at the speed I was going and instead did a big skid on the gravelly sand and came down on my right side.

Said passer by said "Shit," as she rushed to my aid, "are you ok?"

"Yes," I replied in an almost disappointed Homer Simpson tone "I'm fine" as I collected my Green Guide and lifted myself shamefully back to the vertical position, sand stuck all over me.

I now have:

a grazed knee

a grazed foot

a grazed palm with gravel embedded in it

and a sore right ankle and wrist.

No hand jobs for anyone this week. Sorry.

As I headed home from filming I was crossing Alexandra Pde and was struck by a man on the other side looking down to the pavement and doing some fancy wibbly wobbly hand movements. He seemed paralyzed and I, concerned about him, thought I should just make sure he was alright and that he wasn't stuck there in the baking heat, unable to cross the road.

I tentatively asked as much only to find out that he was doing some "light work". He was a light worker you see and I, as it turns out, am part of the evolutionary path of Jenny who is much older than me. About 50 in fact. This and something about the cosmos and inter connectedness of us all and bla bla, he explained to me with his skanky breath, all over unwashed odour and 3 or so sharp, brown, crescent moon teeth. He realised this about Jenny when I interrupted him and knew my intentions weren't good and some other shit which I didn't hear as I was so taken aback by that particular observation.

"Woah, back up there buddy. Did you say my intentions weren't good?"

"No. They weren't good...(crap, crap, crap about crap)" he clarified at which point I walked off, ignoring his pleas to come back and listen.

If my intentions weren't good, why did he think I stopped him?

To learn his fancy new dance moves?

For money?

To pick up a stinky soothsayer?

Fuck off. Bake and die in Fitzroy for all I care. Charity is so last year.

Favourite Thing Today: It was going to be either Trampoline Gelati, Brunswick Street, Fitzroy. So good on a hot day like today, even if there were shells in my Pistachio section (at least it's real!) Gimme, gimme gimme...

or... a shower at the end of a hot day. Mmmmm...

but, The Salvation Army gets my vote. Yes folks, The Salvation Army. Why? For regaling me with Christmas carols at the end of my street. "Hark" said I, "what music doth drift so sweetly on this afternoon breeze?" as I set forth to find out. I opened my front door to find a S.A. brass fourtet at the end of my street, ON the road, playing Christmas carols. I wandered down to see what the occasion was and was met by a gorgeous afternoon cool change and joined the by other curious neighbours in their Summer frocks, with their children, all delighted by the music. "Merry Christmas," they greeted us all cheerily with huge, warm smiles and then took requests. I requested "I Want Your Sex" by Bob Michael* but they opted for my new neighbour's offer of Drummer Boy instead, an old favourite of mine so I was pleased. Meanwhile others collected money for their Christmas drive and I was moved to donate and was thanked with a heart felt, "God bless you". And God bless you.

It was a particularly Australian, Summer, Christmas experience.

*Perhaps I didn't but I would have, had I had a chance.

How Dry Can This Blog Dry Get?

2005-12-01T11:54:00.000+11:00

This drought sucks. My drought that is. The great blog drought of '05.

I'm as blog dry as a mouth full of concrete in the desert;

as scratchy sex on an E when your vagina feels like it's lined with sand paper and full of gravel. No good at all. Very un good;

as a salada without cheese;

as a north wind;

as a crumbly, dry, "no thank you very much" piece of sponge cake;

as a martini.

I've got no water, no lubricant, no creamy toppings, no moisturiser, no butter in my cake and no olives (not that they'd make my martini any wetter but I wouldn't mind one anyway.)

I look unto the heavens daily and ask "when will this drought breaketh?" As yet the heaven's have not replied.

And so I pray.

And in the mean time I trip off in the 34 degree heat to film a student film in a laneway which I regrettably said yes to.

Favourite Thing Today: Heartbeats by The Knife. HOT! A new and welcome discovery for me. It will definitely be my Summer anthem. Also rather keen on Jose Gonzalez's version which, I must confess, was the first I heard. Desperately sad I missed his gigs. Do you think he'll want to play at my next birthday?

I'm in Shock

2005-11-23T22:08:00.000+11:00

You know the dribbly, poohey audition I did yesterday? Well...

I got the fucking job!

Oh my god. I have been speechless.

Who won the If Awards damn it?!?!?!?! I only caught the end.

The Proposition? Best film? Are they on drugs? It was not a good film!!!!!!!!! Look Both Ways and Little Fish shat all over it. Who cares if Nick Cave wrote it? It was a shit script.

OK. Breathing now.

I gotta get outa this little bubble soon and get back in touch with what's going on out there.

People are starving to death in Niger.

Random Ramblings From a Busy Blogger/Absentee

2005-11-22T16:30:00.000+11:00

Well clearly I didn't mean that I had been busy blogging but rather with life beyond the 'sphere. You know, doing "stuff".

Boring stuff.

Just allowed some shamefully bad acting to dribble out of my bottom in an audition for a role I really wanted in a play I love with a director who I ADORE! Fuck! Why do I screw the ones I want and nail the ones I don't? Sabotage? Ugh.

Had sex with two different friends of mine in a dream the other night. But you know the dreams where you are having sex but it's not in the least bit sexy or arousing? What a waste of sex in a dream! I don't get sex in my dreams often so, come on!

Anyway, it's always weird when you wake up from the dream but it was even weird in the dream. I remember thinking "what am I doing?" Especially because the sex with the second friend (no, it wasn't with both at once, damn it - that might have qualified as sexy) was AWFUL!

I almost told him. I was going to tell him how bad he was in bed too. Thank fuck I didn't. I often speak before I think and am far too honest. That would have been way awkward.

So, as I have resumed my job as an organic green grocer, expect to hear much over excited updates on what's hot and not in the market. Oh yeah, darcy'll bring you the latest on the seasonal do's and don'ts in the fruit and veg land.

At the moment DO: avocado. Oh YEAH baby. Touch me! Creamy Hass goodness.

Bananas were rocking last week.

Golden kiwi - just do it!

Little red capsicum...mmm...

and...not much else to rave about. All the standards are good, as usual. Still enduring a seasonal change over.

Asparagus still good and we have some sexy herbs if you don't grow 'em.

If you have to eat apples this far out of season, only do pink ladies. Don't even look at the others.

DON'T: pumpkin. Just wait alright? Til Autumn.

And don't be too tempted by stone fruit and mangoes yet. They'll get cheaper and way better.

Also don't pay $5.95 for a punnet of strawbs. Unless you try them first and they are outstanding and you can't live without them. (Ours are way cheaper now).

Aahhh, the wisdom; the insight.

x

Lazy Bitch Loveless Blog

2005-11-15T15:31:00.000+11:00

Ooh, what a surprise, darcy's taking time out.

It's 'cause life is boring and busy again and painting, plastering, grouting, digging, hauling shit around, fixing, cleaning, shopping, reading, auditioning, looking for work and doing my tax does not make for good reading, nor fuel the imagination.

Maybe marching does but hopefully you were there anyway.

So, later dudes.

x

The Animal Circus is in Brunswick

2005-11-12T18:09:00.000+11:00

The K9 is home, looking like a FREAK!!! Half a shaved head and ear, pink, spotty skin showing through, terrible, lumpy stitching...and a cone. Poor, poor baby.

Very happy though. Running into everything with a big "doink" and getting the bottom of it caught on the ground and steps. He has a completely distorted sense of space. Hilarious. He will be known as the Mayor of Coney Island for the next two weeks.

Pussy cat is regaining his appetite and spark and is as smoochy as ever. He too looks a bit odd with shaved front legs. He was thrilled to have the dog back and so curious about his cone. Seemed a bit disturbed actually.

Thank god (so to speak). So the house has become a sanctuary for strange looking healing animals.

Bless.

Thanks well wishers.

x

If Beer is Currency, How Many is a Life Worth? - Love Blog Number 4

2005-11-09T12:06:00.000+11:00

Another thing I love about Australia is that it is probably one of the only countries in the world where you can take a station wagon full of green waste to the tip, be let in after hours by someone who doesn't work there, take another load in the next morning and have the staff joyfully accept a six pack of beer for the lot of it, instead of the cash I owed them.

I am, however a little distressed today and need advice.

Picked up the cat from the hospital today and swapped it for the dog. My dog needs to get a heinous lump (prob benign tumor) removed from his head. The vet suggested that although they have surgeons at the Lort Smith who are qualified to do it, I might be better off taking him to see a specialist as the procedure would be safer and the outcome possibly better, although she could not tell me in which ways.

The consultation with the specialist alone would cost $95 and the surgery over $1000! I took him to the Lort Smith in the first place, on advice from my vet, in order to save money as I am

a.)unemployed

b.) haven't anything left from my last job and

c.)will be resuming work as a green grocer next week - a job from which I don't plan to make my millions.

She was worried that it may not look great when it was finished. I said I didn't care what it looked like, and nor does the dog, but I didn't want to compromise my dog's health or make the wrong decision based on money. Anyway, after some discussion I decided to leave the dog there to have surgery tomorrow.

It will still cost between $450 and $575. (The cat just set me back $384.20). I broke down in tears in front of the receptionist when she asked me how much I could pay today. I actually sat there and wept and didn't know how to answer her. I just passed her my credit card. How pathetic.

So what I'm wondering folks is:

a.) are there any surgeons out there who will operate on my dog for a six pack?

b.)am I a bad parent?

c.)does anyone want to adopt a beautiful 15yr old cat or dog?

d.)does anyone have a high paid job for me?

Thanks for listening.

Oh Crap! I Might Have Killed My Lemon Tree.

2005-11-07T22:17:00.000+11:00

My poor baby. My beautiful lemon tree.

I didn't mean it, I just went a bit sick with my new pruning hand saw. Totally the wrong time of year to prune a lemon tree, I am aware, but it was getting desperate. Or I was.

It was too big for it's boots. Too high, too low, too banging into walls and too shading the rest of the garden. I couldn't wait til March.

So I went the hack.

And now my lemon tree looks like Lyle Lovett.

If I haven't killed it then I have definitely given it a very wrong and bad hair cut. I feel like the mother of a barely teenage son. You can hear me insisting "it's for your own good," in a well meaning but intensely irritating voice. And now he has to stand in the school yard, all awkward and ashamed to be alive, whilst girls snicker at him and boys throw rocks at him...just wanting to die...running into his room when he comes home, locking the door, throwing himself on his bed in tears and yelling "I HATE YOU MUM! I hate you! I hay-ay-ate y-y-you..." And me, knowing that I fucked the haircut up. That I subjected my only son to this torment through my haste and sheer lack of care during the hair cutting process.

Oh! What have I done!!!!?????? My little lemmy wemmy. My squeezy, yummy, citrus baby. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so so-o-o-rry.

I seem to be screwing everything up at the moment, or everything around me is going wrong or breaking.

I burnt the beetroot last night, to a blackened crisp. Thought there was enough water in the pot to last the few minutes it would take me to dash to the shops but came home to that "uh-oh" smell. Didn't know what to do so I took to the streets in sheer desperation with a placard made of cardboard and crayon, bearing the words "SAVE THE BEETROOT!". No-one cared. Not even my Middle Eastern neighbours. I thought they'd understand. What else am I supposed to put my pomegranate molasses on? They sold it to me!

My car's broken, my cat's broken (he's in hospital), my dog's broken (he's going to hospital on Wednesday), my shovel went missing (who steals a shovel? Yesterday's was borrowed)...at least my spirit's not broken.

Why does everything go wrong when you're unemployed? Fuck life's expensive!

It's fuckin' good though and I love it.

Blundstones and Bikinis - Love Blog Number 3

2005-11-06T18:28:00.000+11:00

The above, plus hot pants, sunnies and gloves, was my attire for my gardening mission today. With a big shovel.

What a day! Gorgeous. I spent it ripping out the old, waist high vegie garden, putting in new manure, compost, pea straw and vegies.

YUMMY!!!!!!

I would have done it topless but I have a gaping gap in my side gate.

Got grimy and stinky and all scratched up from my lemon tree. An awesome day all round.

Finally decided that if any of my neighbours were nosy enough to come and peer through my side gate then they deserved to cop an eye load of boob and thus removed the bikini.

And now I have a third nipple.

Yes folks. It's not funny. I went to the bathroom to clean a cut in my dirt embedded fingernail and soon discovered, beneath the chicken poo and sweat, a massive bite on my left breast. I can't feel it but it is about 5 times the size of a fresh mozzie bite with a gaping red areola around it. It is, in fact, competing with my real nipple for attention...and winning.

Not pretty.

But who cares? I had the best day.

After cleaning up and showering I sat down to a nice cold bee- gin and tonic and planned what I will cook this Summer.

Divine.

So you are all invited around this January for some kind of feast involving tomatoes, corn, basil, parsley, rainbow chard, chilli, beetroot, mint, lettuce, lemon and lime.

Favourite thing today: Australia. Do we live in the best country or what? Fuck we're lucky. If it weren't for the politics and the odd racist or Spring Carnival going fashion disgrace, this country'd be Utopia.

PS This is blog no.2 today. If you want to find out what I was like earlier today, before I was in such a good mood, or what I thought of last night's venture to the theatre, read below blog.

Darcy's Review of Metamorphosis...The One at the Malthouse (Warning - This is Not a Love Blog)

2005-11-06T14:53:00.000+11:00

Metamorphosis
A Play by Ben Ellis
From the Original Novella by Franz Kafka
Directed by Ben Winspear
Performed at The Malthouse
by a Bunch of Fuckin' Actors*

Review by darcy:

Boring.

So boring.

So, sooo boring.

So fucking, terribly boooooooooooooorrrriiiiiiiiiing.

Oh Christ.

Oh my. Oh dear. Oh wow, just how boring can you get? You are by the far the most boring thing I've had to endure this year. No really, I think you've just out boringed everything I've ever been bored by. Ever.

Oh, I know, slap me over the face with some theatre. No, please, I want you to. Be bigger. Be more obvious. Squeeze a few more worn to death themes in, I could never tire of them.

Oh fuck! Let me out!!!! I'm so bored!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!

When is this fucking play going to finish? Now? Oh no. Now? Oh no. NOW?!?!?!? Fuck! Come one! Please! I can't take it any more. Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaase!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Somebody help me! I can't yell at the stage. I WANT to. Christ I want to but I have three friends up there. Three!

What am I going to say to them after the show?

If I bite into that wooden railing will it hurt my teeth? If I walk over and smash my head on that wall will anyone notice?

I hate theatre. I HATE IT! I don't care if it has hitherto been a passion of mine, I herein renounce any love I've ever had for it. I should have listened to roguemaze long ago. Die theatre, die! Oh, you just did. I was wondering what that smell was.

Of fuck, thank Christ. It's OVER.

Yes, champagne please. With a dash of vodka in it? Oh thanks. Excellent.

PS (I know the bitchy pants came back on but there was no love to be had in this review)

*Good ones too but fuck - what could they do? It was like watching people in jail. Hell perhaps.

Sweet, Sweet Beer, You are a Bastard - Love Blog Number 2

2005-10-31T22:51:00.000+11:00

Beer.

You are like a dangerous ex boyfriend. I want you so much, I have loved you for so long but I know how bad you are for me.

Why do you tease me so?

You with your gentle amber effervescence, your cooling temperature, your sweet yet bitter dance on my tongue, your low cost, your friendly availability in such sizes as a jug...why?

What did I ever do to you? Why do you treat other people better than me?

I remember the first time we met, in my grand father's glass. He wouldn't let me spend too much time with you because he knew how much I liked you. We then later started a secret romance that my parents didn't know about, sneaking meetings in the park, at parties, on the beach. How you kept me warm at night, cool during the day, spurred me on to do things I would never otherwise do. Oh, the memories.

But you are cruel. You push my stomach out to bursting capacity and make my face go all puffy and red. It is even worse the next day with the memory of you and the smell of you on my breath, in my pores, my face as turgid as a newly blown balloon. I can't breathe when you are around. Literally.

So I had to stop. But I can't and you know it.

Just leave me alone! I'm hanging with vodka, can't you see? Even if she does cost twice as much. I even flirted with cider for a while there...let's just say I was settling for less than I deserved. Wine? I love wine but it makes me tired.

You know you are unparalleled. You know it! There are others who are better, out of your league even but you can't take them everywhere and my wallet can't cope. I just want you to stop staring at me, that's all. It's so hard when you're with my friends all the time, you don't understand. You don't make their faces expand? Why? Why just me?

Arsehole.

Sorry, I didn't mean that.

And as for your bitch cousin, bread, well, she's not much better. Tart. Worse than a tart. Part of a tart...sort of. In fact she's worse than you! At every restaurant I turn up to, there for breakfast, lunch and tea....sitting there all plump and fluffy by the olive oil, popping herself in the toaster when it's cold and drowning herself in salty butter. Nasty little temptress. I can't wake up when I have her, can't breathe, can't digest anything and she does the same thing to my face as you do. You're both trying to disfigure me. You grab me by the sinuses and throw me to the ground.

I am not that weak! You watch me. I don't care how hot it gets! I am never, ever, EVER going...to...oh...maybe... just...one more...time...

I love you.

Favourite thing today: Bee- No! So Much Art...So Few Bullets' new production at The Store Room. Look it up on www.sofewbullets.com or check out cotton's blog (no can link...traviscotton.blogspot.com?) and go see it! It's hilarious.

Love Blog Number 1

2005-10-31T21:21:00.000+11:00

Smells like Summer out there!

Yummmmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!

Was a bit angry with daylight saving yesterday morning when I had to not only set my alarm (very much against my religion on a Sunday!) but also get up an hour early to do "stuff", especially after a night at the pub. By the time evening had rolled around, I was nice and tipsy on rose ( as in rosAY - I have no fonts and therefore cannot accent it) and surrounded by spunky, intelligent, divine and very-much-missed-by-me-lately friends in my back yard and it was still light, I felt a lot better about it, indeed excited.

How good is this time of year?

The sweet smells of jasmine, lavender, garlic and beer; the pink clouds; the somnambulant, dog walking neighbours; the lack of clothes; the mozzies; the promise of festivals; the freckles; the basil, corn and tomatoes; the sex; the love; the asparagus; the smiles; the beer garden at The Retreat; the broken air con in the car; thongs; the pool; the beach; the smell of food on the breeze; ice cream; sun screen; my animals lying lazily in the sun, blissing out, panting; the possibilities; the long days; the bomb.

Love it!

Go forth and sweat my friends.

xx d

Hey, Not Even my Computer Wants to be PC

2005-10-29T15:25:00.001+10:00

I was very PC for many years. Such a good, open minded, understanding individual.

Over it.

You might have noticed. I bored myself. I'd like to think that I still see all sides of the coin and seek to understand everyone for who they are, why they are etc. but to be honest I have found room for a healthy bit of disliking here and there these days; a bit o' judgment. Love the odd put down.

I'd be a tough Prime Minister. I have already decided the hard line I'd take on policy making for the better good of all. The pink polo would obviously be made illegal, umbrella use would be heavily policed, if not banned, bad, loud phone rings and their subsequent loud public conversations outlawed, girls would have to wear more than a singlet in the cold, there'd be no more horse racing carnivals; the public thus spared from drunken, sun burnt, smoking bitches in feathers with strappy heels in their hands and men in suits and mirrored service station sunnies polluting our streets, all fast food chains closed and reality TV wiped from our screens for ever.

Vote for me!

Anyway, after all of that, I have decided to take off my bitchy pants for a few days and blog with love. Gotta keep myself in check.

Kisses to all!

My Sincerest Thanks...

2005-10-28T11:37:00.000+10:00

I would like to thank the following three women for saving me from 0 comments obscurity: Elaine, sublime-action and another outspoken female. (If I knew the first thing about creating links I would but as I can't even get the fonts happening on my blog, you might have to pay homage to them through my comments...and I suggest you do).

Thank you ladies as I was getting a wee lonely there for a while.

When I first blogged back in June this year (I'm so new at this!!!!) I thought it was funny that people would comment, then slowly the neediness crept in until I started to depend upon it as a radar that what I said was worthwhile or of any interest to anyone. Then I pulled out for a bit as I felt myself slipping into a nerdy world of attention seeking. I have since been on and off the blog machine as I feel creatively fit. After a wee absence, I crept back on, without slutting myself across other people's comments page as a cheap means of advertising but found myself continuously checking in to a flurry of nothing - no comments. No readers?

Ha ha ha ha ha!

I love that.

So, I would also like to thank everyone for not reading or not commenting if you did because it made me laugh daily, kept my ego in check and served to keep my blogtentions pure.

Thank you!

Have a lovely weekend!

x

Home Sweet Home

2005-10-26T12:14:00.000+10:00

If one more yuppy cafe opens up on Sydney Rd I am going to fire bomb it.

Take your Phillippa's Bread and fuck off back to Armadale you boring tossers. Don't screw up the diversity in one of Melbourne's last culturally interesting inner city suburbs. Keep your overpriced bullshit to yourself.

Signed,

Angry Young Resident

There's a First Time for Everything

2005-10-24T12:52:00.000+10:00

Well, my time in Adelaide has come. It has been an extraordinary journey, this one. This has been the hardest job I have ever done but has turned out to be one of the most rewarding. I’m still not convinced my acting was any good but I have accomplished a lot and have been enormously broadened by the faith of my director and the rest of the team. Apparently I have great breasts though – that was the most consistent feed back. Excellent. Who needs talent when you’ve got tits? I have ended up making many beautiful friends, all of whom I would jump at the chance of working with again and whom I will miss dearly. And I have also grown very fond of Shmads and will miss this fair town muchly.

It’s always hard ending an acting gig – losing a family, losing the routine, returning to unemployment. Heart breaking in fact and requires a wee period of grieving and adjustment. Thankfully I have even more loved ones and a beautiful house in a beautiful suburb in a beautiful city to return to and am very much looking forward to it.

Enough shmultz!

SOME THINGS I HAVE EXPERIENCED FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE BEING IN ADELAIDE:

Had whole kitchen sink full of water fall in and spill torrentiously* all over the floor.

Been accused of flirting with my friend’s mother.

Acquired a stalker…on a bmx bike. Well, maybe not, but the second late night in a row that he rode past me and winked/nodded as though he knew me when I was walking home was enough to freak me a little.

Nuded up on stage.

Wore a strap on on stage.

Wore a strap on at all.

Pole danced in front of an audience.

Had the music cut out on me during a number and come back in later, too late, leaving me a huge gap in which to improvise stripping, teasing, pole dancing…badly.

Had to murder someone on stage with an enormous black mumba (say ten inches and about four thick, complete with balls and a suction cup so you can fasten it to a mirror/table/whatever and fuck yourself silly with it, without the aid of a partner…not that I tried, I just worked it out).

Had my costume pop open on stage – the top third of my corset split clean open. (Was luckily clad underneath).

*I will be starting a dictionary of darcy’s own words some time soon. It will be huge.

Favourite thing today: LOVE. I am bathed in it and have an eternal source of it to give away. All of it times ten goes out to La Nadine and her family today. May her mother rest in peace.

x

Blog-a-Thon

2005-10-11T11:03:00.000+10:00

Warning: The following three or four blogs are from the past week. I was unable to post them at my internet cafe. I've posted them in reverse order so if you read down from here (if you really care), you will be reading them in order. Comprende? So, let's get a little retrospective...

Things are clearly looking up here. I am definitely on the bright side of an ugly hill. Four days off with my boyfriend did wonders for the soul.

Back in theatre land, I am fighting a losing battle with our designer who wants to put me in a G string in a scene that is performed on the third story of the set (read: performed high enough for everyone on the bottom two levels of the audience to stare straight up my crotch and really see what’s going on inside me). He doesn’t understand.

Being the only woman on the team I seem to play all female roles at once: protective, nurturing mumma, skanky whore and broken, vulnerable daughter. My director keeps promising he’ll wear a dress in for me so I don’t feel like the only woman but I’ve yet to see it.

I have been stretched like a clown’s suspenders. I don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore, all I know is that blinds go up and down, carpet feels funny on your bare bum, I look like a Chinese swimmer after her family disowned her for coming second and she turned to crack, if I miss a bar of music I’m fucked and if I don’t concentrate whilst on the edge of the third storey in my six inch stilettos, there will be an ugly accident.

I am proud of myself for what I have learnt and for all the barriers of fear and inhibition that I have pushed through. No one I know will see it, which is kind of good but also kind of disappointing after all the hard work I’ve put in. I just want one person to say “gee, I didn’t know you could do that”. Because I didn’t either.

Favourite thing today: bravery.

I Love my Box

2005-10-11T11:02:00.000+10:00

Why do they call the vagina a box? It’s not so boxy if you ask me. Isn’t it more like a velvety rabbit warren? That’s it. From now on I am calling my pussy Warren. There’s a whole other blog in here, can’t you feel it? My vagina is an endless source of entertainment.

Anyway, this blog is about the television. I love television almost more than anything right now. It’s my best friend.

Now, if you’ve been reading my blog for some time you might think I am completely contradicting myself here. So what? Times change. People evolve. And get lonely.

Granted, I only watch an hour or two a night, if that, but I am loving those precious minutes. I usually get sucked into whatever I switch on on the ABC or SBS, which is usually about some war but I love it!!! Have even been watching a bit of morning TV. Sesame Street (which is called something else now, which I dare not write as I find it sacreligious. How dare they?), Bambaloo and the Spanish news. Sex and Pop on Friday nights, The Sand Man’s Siberia whatever show on Sat night (I went out later OK?) just about anything on a Sunday night, especially if it’s English. I’ve even snuck a few cheeky glances at Gray’s Anatomy. It’s good to surprise yourself sometimes.

I miss Denton. I miss Six Feet Under even more. And my dignity and life...but only a little bit.

There’s supposed to be an awesome doco on whaling on Sunday night on ABC. Watch it. I will. With Warren.

Favourite thing today: Warren! On TV! Yey!

PS Sorry about way out of date-ness of this, Hope you caught the doco. It was awesome! x

Angry Young Woman

2005-10-11T11:01:00.000+10:00

Most of the time I am a gentle, reasonable person. I like to avoid conflict. I like to discuss rather than argue and if I argue, I like to learn and teach during the argument; change and be changed. I don’t argue to win. I argue to resolve.

But there is a rage in me that runs so deep.

This is perhaps why I am fairly good with conflict now, because I learnt to deal with it. I realised one teenage day that I had to marry my ideals with my actions and there upon set out on a journey to become a better person. A good person.

If I cannot deal with a situation immediately I will walk away from it for a few days usually, until my anger subsides and my emotions no longer have the better of me. Otherwise if I strike out when the iron is hot I will set everything around me ablaze and burn things that I love.

I have yet to see the full extent of my anger but I have seen it at maybe sixty percent perhaps twice in my life. It was terrifying. But only in retrospect. At the time it felt completely normal and justified but even in the midst of it there was a hint of reason and I knew that I was holding back. Despite my ferocity I was restraining myself and warning the person with me not to push me further because I knew how much more would come out of me and how hurt (or dead) they would be. I won't tell you what happened because a) you don't need to know everything about me and b) it was wrong and bad and humiliating and you might think less of me. Let's just say I was a bit like a caged wild animal, missing a tooth, starving, on heat, after her babies had been murdered. Experiencing that and glimpsing just how much further it would reach was a massive eye opener for me and quite a shock. It was formidable.

Scary? Yes.

Freaky? Maybe not.

I’m a fuckin’ Irish, Scottish Italian. And a red headed Dragon. What would you expect?

The unfreaky part is that I am fully aware of my tendencies and limits and have always sought to control or change them.

Now don’t get me wrong, anger has it’s place and is valid. I love my anger. I don’t believe in denying any emotions but anger needs to be respected. It needs to be used judiciously, sparingly and cautiously. Anger should not be whipped out willy nilly on a daily basis as it degrades anger and the barer and makes for most unpleasant company. Anger needs to be saved for when it is really needed. Really needed. It otherwise needs to be harnessed, metamorphosed or just dealt with as it can so easily become an unhealthy, dominating beast.

Anyway, all this bla bla is just a precursor to mentioning how surprised I always am at how thin the ice is between peaceful, charming, diplomatic darcy and firey hell bitch.

The thing that usually tends to break the ice with a mere tap of a baby finger? Rustling loud plastic wrappers or talking in the cinema or the theatre.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF! You fucking cunts!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! We are not in your lounge room! Go home you mongrel bastard idiot pleb! You are ruining this entire experience for me!!!!!!!!

Breath darcy, breath.

Oh mama. I nearly killed someone in the cinema tonight.

Had I just turned around when mild darcy still resided within with a sweet whispered “would you mind” accompanied by a smile or a friendly, if a little flirty shhh finger to the lip gesture, which is what I wanted to do but for some reason resisted (I think I thought the sweets would run out before I needed stretch my neck around to the row behind), all might well have been resolved and we could have watched the film in peace.

Instead, some time later (like three quarters of the way into the film – I mean come on! Just finish the fuckers you greedy cunts) they copped a wildly irritated head swing, a loud sigh, a death stare and the mouthed words “you’re really fuckin’ annoying”.

Just one moment where there is no fore thought and it’s all over.

I’d be useless if it weren’t for fore thought. Absolutely useless. Some people who know me think I’m overly sensible. Well, my friends, this is why.

But you have to laugh.

Things I have learnt this week:

Self loathing and lack of confidence does not a good actor make.

I think I should try directing, flower arranging, farming or running away.

Much like the thin ice between psycho and sweet heart, there is also a fine line between solitude and loneliness. Between introspection and self indulgence. Between learning about one’s self and just going stir fucking crazy. It’s amazing what comes up when you stop distracting yourself. So much bitter reality. The city is such a concrete manifestation of denial. Even a positive, life loving, love loving, appreciator of all things kind of gal like me (you may not believe it but it’s true) can get completely bamboozled by the seemingly mindless drive on a road I don’t want to be on, through other people’s systems and expectations which I despise.

Oh yes, I feel the bush calling me. Time for a bit of time out. Two weeks of work left. I need some trees, some sunsets, some flies, some dirt, some stars.

The Grass has Riz

2005-10-11T11:00:00.000+10:00

Summer is coming!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The only bad thing about that is that the pink polo neck t shirt has returned to the streets.

Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy????????????????????????

Can’t you just leave us to enjoy summer in visual peace?

Favourite thing today: the death penalty. Harsh? OK...good taste.

Auntie Darcy's Wine Tour Tips

2005-10-09T14:57:00.000+10:00

Things to remember if you ever take a tour of the Barossa Valley in a stretch Chevrolet limousine:

1. Eat substantially before you leave if you want to remember any of it.

2. If you plan a 10am pick up on Sunday morning make sure you invite people who are hard and will actually get up and be there, no matter what they did the night before.

3. In fact, make sure you invite spunky people only because you have to look at them all day and let’s face it, it’s a very sexy limo and it’s gonna get a bit weird in there after eight hours.

4. If you really want to learn anything about wine, perhaps don’t start on the champagne provided by the limo at 10am.

5. Bring CDs!!!!! Oh Lord, bring CDs. (Unless you LIKE Adelaide top 40). Barry White is a must.

6. Bring sunglasses and lots of money.

7. Bring a hot date.

8. Make sure you wear knickers (or jocks) lest you jizz all over the blue valour seats.

9. Eat lunch somewhere hot as soon as you get there.

10. Don’t take a pill at lunch unless you are determined to cheat on your girlfriend.

11. Choose small wineries for good service, attention and wine and ones that aren’t down a dirt road ‘cause Gino won’t drive down a dirt road, lest he get stone chips on the Chev.

12. If a woman with bright pink nail polish gives you bright pink lip, smack the bitch over the head with a bottle of Grant Burge.

13. Don’t go to Grant Burge. (Unless you want some of their super sexy 2003 Merlot for only $13 a bottle!!!! Or you want to roll around on their rather stunning lawns in a drunken, group stupor)

14. Go to Grant Burge

15. Nah, just don’t.

16. If you want to make Gino stop for drugs on the way home, make sure he doesn’t end his shift an hour over time.

17. See if you can do better than a bottle of Scotch to apologise.

Hell - I mean Art!

2005-09-27T14:42:00.000+10:00

Okay long losties...what can I cram into a 20 minute blog frenzy?

Should I tell you how I look now?

I have a mullet. Yes a skanky, thin mullet. Supposedly a fullet but no...more like Scott when he married Charlene.

I am starting to look like a man - no hips, huge shoulders, muscles a plenty...it's only my pot and tits that keep me feminine. Thank god for tits! Come on, everbody, all together "THANK GOD FOR TITS!!!!!!" They are the best. Especially mine. Ah...did I say that out loud? Fuck!

Oh yeah, I am also a bruise factory. Spectacular. Thank god for Arnica! Come on, everybody - shut up darcy.

I climb up and down a three storey set and writhe, slide, twist and shimmy up, down and around 6m poles on a daily basis in a skanky big, smelly, pigeon poo, bird flu covered concrete warehouse. There's blood spattered all over our front door step and vomit smells that punch you in the face when you enter.

I am learning to sing jazz numbers after extensive pole numbers then rock out like Peaches and Courtney Love on a bender.

My acting is HUGE! That scares me. It's the style of the show but I have no idea what I'm doing.

I have been simulating sex with near strangers (No this is not a porno, it's theatre! Same thing? Damn. *rings agent*), kissing them and putting our dirty fingers in each others mouths everyday. No wonder we all got sick. I had to have a day off due to fevered sweat fest and have been sick ever since. It's down to only a cough now but one that just won't quit. I sound like my nanna did before she carked it. Nanna with a mullet.

I am, thankfully, working with the most awesome group...of men. I am the only woman in the entire team. We laugh all the time. We pretty much haven't stopped working since we got here. When I'm not learning lines I am practising moves and walking in my six inch stiletto thigh high platform boots or swimming or just stressing out, missing home and crying.

I couldn't get anyone to come out dancing with me on Saturday night so I ended up dancing around my (very spunky) hotel room (with a wicked view and a spa mother fuckers! A spa!) in the nude. Did a strip show for myself. Their loss. Put loads of money down my own knickers, had to stop myself from touching me all the time and invited myself back to my bed.

Yeah, I'm a bit lonely. I miss cuddles. I miss my home, my pets, my friends, my freedom and all sorts of other things I'm not allowed to mention.

Excellent!

No really, acting is awesome. It nourishes the soul. Try it.

I think the show is getting better but I honestly have no idea. It better be good.

I better be good!

Back I go. Wish me luck x

Baseball and Other Such...

2005-08-28T16:16:00.000+10:00

...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

2005-08-22T18:35:00.000+10:00

Absolutely everyone should go and see Turtles Can Fly.

Everyone.

Everyone in the world.

Stupidity

2005-08-18T21:33:00.000+10:00

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...

2005-08-15T23:21:00.000+10:00

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

2005-08-10T23:55:00.000+10:00

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

2005-08-10T20:48:00.000+10:00

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.

2005-08-09T23:21:00.000+10:00

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

2005-08-08T22:38:00.000+10:00

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

2005-08-06T16:52:00.000+10:00

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

2005-08-04T19:01:00.000+10:00

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

2005-08-03T20:31:00.000+10:00

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

2005-08-02T20:54:00.000+10:00

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...

2005-08-02T01:06:00.000+10:00

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

2005-08-01T00:40:00.000+10:00

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.

Fuck Me I'm Cute

2005-07-31T22:42:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-25T20:07:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-24T14:54:00.000+10:00

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

MIFFed

2005-07-23T17:08:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-21T21:45:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-21T21:14:00.000+10:00

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?

2005-07-21T00:45:00.000+10:00

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...

2005-07-18T23:54:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-18T23:03:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-15T19:23:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-12T12:54:00.001+10:00

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

2005-07-09T15:41:00.000+10:00

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.

2005-07-08T14:36:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-07T15:33:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-06T13:36:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-05T17:03:00.000+10:00

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

2005-07-04T16:38:00.000+10:00

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. BecauseI 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!

2005-07-02T17:04:00.000+10:00

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.

Maybe I'd be Happier in Asia

2005-06-27T18:32:00.000+10:00

Remedy for a boring Hong Konganese film (2046 - oh, I had such high hopes! Yes, I walked out) = good Chinese food.

Dumplings from the Dumpling House and, well I couldn't get Tsing Tao at my local so I settled for a Singha. Racist, I know, but it made me happy.

I am developing a complex because my boyfriend doesn't laugh at my blogs, he only laughs at his friends'. They get "ha ha ha ha ha" and the snorty breath-out-the-nose laughs and evoke such reactions as "brilliant" whereas I get the silent treatment. You know when you've just seen your friend suck arse on stage or in a suck arse film and you just say nothing to avoid lying or saying something down right crippling? Yeah, well I get that.

Am I insecure? Maybe

Definitely sensitive.

Anyway, stuff it, I'm not going to stoop to superficial boy humour. Must stay true to self. Must...keep...writi-

Bugger it, I'm going all silent for a while. I'm going to sit in the corner and sulk. No I'm not, I'm going to drift around the park all Japanese and floaty and ethereal, staring at the sky silently, whispering things and blowing dandelion fairies from my fingers.

I may not be back.

X

Oh Dear, I Just Got Two and a Half Hours Older

2005-06-26T16:37:00.000+10:00

Well, I walked out of a show yesterday. I actually sat there with a look of horror and disbelief on my face from the moment it opened. About an hour in I started looking for my pocket knife but couldn't find it. It was only out of respect and empathy for the actors that I didn't walk out before the HOUR AND A HALF of the first act was over.

It almost killed one woman! I kid you not. She and her husband got up to leave in what I thought was mere disgust but as she reached the door she fainted. Naturally our attention shifted to her as a momentary relief from the abomination that was on stage. Then we all filed past her and left her for dead. Except one kind and clever woman who offered her the age old cure-all; a mint. Brilliant. Why the woman didn't accept, I have no idea. Maybe she just wanted to die in peace.

The offending show, my friends, was Ruby's Last Dollar.

A Pork Chop production starring Jacki Weaver, directed by Jeremy Sims, about...oh don't worry.

Now I know why Simsy collapsed in a Kings Cross lane way after opening night. Shame. And probably excruciating pain and emptiness after laying the world's biggest steaming turd in the Sydney Opera House.

It was like a school play in Dubbo. The costumes looked like they had been sewed by Simsy's mum, the sets built by kids in a remand centre, the lights borrowed from a dentist's clinic and designed by a grade three geography teacher and the acting...oh Lord, where do I start?

Well, let's start with the good bit; Jackie. She was actually fine but had nothing to do other than narrate. For Christ's sake, give the woman something to do! The younger version of her was played by someone who shall remain nameless as I'm sure she's a lovely girl, but shall we just say that when she first came on stage she was playing what I thought was a slightly retarded five year old. You know that cringe making acting where they point their toes in (cause all little kids are knock kneed), and speak in a squeaky voice? Well, turns out that she was "only fifteen" at the start of the story!!!!!!! It just went down hill from there.

Peppered with an ensemble of actors who out did the term O.T.T, the final threshold came when a rather tall and lanky old B.F.G was squeezed into one of Mrs. Sims' hand sewn and padded black spider costumes and asked to play the seductive Russian actor on tour with Ruby - the one who was going to pop her cherry. More to the point, we were asked to believe that he was sexy and charming, whilst trying not to laugh out loud. They were bigger than huge and badder than big. I'm telling you, I've seen a lot of bad shows (and a lot of brilliant shows) but this just shocked me. And hurt me. It was like being slapped over the face with a big wet piece of dead, smelly theatre.

I could go on but I won't. The point I'm trying to make is DON'T WASTE YOUR TIME OR MONEY ON THIS ONE FOLKS!!!!!!!!

Do yourself a favour and spend that money on something worthwhile. Even purchasing a red hot poker to stick in your eye - you'd enjoy it more. Thankfully my ticket was free. Am I ungrateful? I did thank my date ten times for taking me. Luckily he hated it too. He's the one who has to call the producer and tell her what he thought as she was really keen to hear his feedback, poor bastard. If anyone has any diplomatic, clever responses let me know, 'cause I couldn't think of any.

Anyway, it's Sunday now, it's raining and I'm being serenaded by the guitar so it's all cool.

Favourite thing today: M.I.A - the girl's got funk. She's like Missy Elliot meets Bollywood.

X

Pass me a Marshmallow

2005-06-25T15:29:00.000+10:00

Ooh yeah, snuggly yummy winterness.

I have so been digging these 21 degree "winter" days up here but I gotta say, sometimes I forget how much I love the cold til I'm in it again.

I am loving this rain. And guess what I got to play in in the Blue Mountains? Snow!!!!! Yeah baby, I was in Winter Wonderland. Driving through it is like being in a Star Wars space ship, hurtling through galaxies of stars. Walking through it in the bush, watching it fall and gather on the ferns is magic. And hiding in it in the pub, curled up on big, dark, consuming leather couches is just sexy.

Plus, I love winter clothes; layers of warming fibres and barriers to protect us from the wind and rain. Hats, boots, big woolly socks, scarves, mittens, lederhosen, bubble gum stretch jeans...oh no wait, I'm heading off track here. Everyone looks hot! The supermarket is a veritable den of pick up potential and the streets are teeming with people huddled together, shoulders around ears, hands rubbing together in a complicit defence against the cold. It's like we're all on the same team for a day.

Bring it on!!!!

Make my nose cold and my cheeks red. I want to drink Guinness by the fire. I want rain on my eyelashes. I want to see my breath in the air. I want to put my new $5 umbrella to good use and see how long it lasts. I want to steam up the windows at night. I want to rub myself up and down on bus drivers and wee on poles on the street...oh sorry, there I go again.

Anyway, you get my point. I've got a lot of Irish and Scottish blood in me. What can I say?

x

PS (Check out Paddy's Porter stout. Unbelievably delicious!)

Big Disaster

2005-06-22T00:17:00.000+10:00

I want to pour acid on every single one of those cunts on Big Brother and watch them writhe around in agony.

Then set them alight. Love a good fire.

Yes, every single one of them. Even Tim.

I was going to waste a long winded blog on them but why bother?

I'm going to the Blue Mountains for a few days so I'll leave you with that and come back from the fresh air and REALITY, refreshed and with a little perspective.

See ya guys. Don't do anything I wouldn't do (you've got heaps of scope now that I have so many habits).

x

Peaches

2005-06-21T18:43:00.000+10:00

Look out readers, this is going to be a movie review/personal outpouring about the state of the Australian "film industry". I doubt it will be in the least bit amusing so tune out now if you just want cheap thrills.

Ok, so maybe not a review as such, but a bit of a response to Peaches.

I loved it. It wasn't perfect but it was the first Australian film I have seen in a loooooong time that I thoroughly enjoyed. The first Aussie film I've seen in God knows how long that I haven't walked out of and hung my head in shame, wanting to slash my wrists, or, if I had the luxury of a DVD player, simply switched off. It takes a seriously shit film to make me switch it off. I generally like to give a film a damn good go and ultimately want to like it so I hang in there with hope. I switched Travelling Lightly off. We sat there in stunned silence for some time then injected heroin into our veins. Well, wouldn't you?

But I could watch Emma Lung and Jacqueline McKenzie for hours. Finally some women on screen who are worth two hours of my life, who are not merely wives/nurses/secretaries/super heroes/whores/gun toting killing machines in tight lycra suits/tits and arse. Finally! Finally a film which is lead by women but is not a "chic flick" and not about how strong and perfect women are; women who claim back their power, who stand up to men, who take control, who are mothers, leaders, victims turned champions...who basically make me want to puke.

Not cause women aren't heroes. Not cause these films and stories aren't important, but because I hate having our faces shoved in it and because men never want to see those films. No need preaching to the converted. Yes women need a little uplifting and confidence boosting from time to time in this crappy state of affairs that we have settled for but it's men who need to see women as people just as interesting and capable as themselves. We all do, but the blokes aren't going to sit through films that are pointedly about heroins. They somehow think it's not interesting. Not without chics kicking someone's teeth in, in the lycra. But I don't blame them really.

What we all need, or certainly I thirst for, are more films that are about people. Not men being legends, not women being inspiring but humans being human. People we can relate to. People and stories that we give a shit about. Films where you don't have to endure stereotypes. I am so bored with them, so desperately bored. We should be able to watch anyone's story regardless of their age or sex or sexuality for that matter. It should be so interesting that we care. We shouldn't even have to notice how good looking/young/whatever the characters are, the story should transport us.

I love a good doco. I could watch a doco on just about any subject in the world if it's good. So why do film makers think that we are all so stupid that we will only go and see time worn formulaic crap?

BECAUSE IT'S TRUE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I so often forget that I am almost alone in this world. The vast majority of our Big Brother addicted nation are thick as shit. Or if not thick, the only culture they get is if they eat yogurt. Real yogurt.

I pray that Peaches will get an audience and make some money. But it probably won't. It is a beautiful film. Like I said, not perfect, but pretty awesome.

Whilst I'm on the topic of Australian Films, it's such a shame that there are no other middle aged actors out there other than
Colin Friels and Hugo Weaving. There are only two middle aged white guys out there to put in our films and TV series. Who would have thunk it, with a population of seventeen million, there are only two of their age group. Strange that. Strange that there's no-one else who can act, no-one better looking. Oh well, what can you do? Just work with what you got.

With full respect to Hugo, who can be quite extraordinary (but not all the time) I will say that I never want to see him kiss another younger woman ever again. That's twice now I've had to endure it. The first time was bad enough.

Anyway, bla bla bla, I'm sure there'll be plenty more where this came from.

Please note, not one F word or list.

PS I didn't like Batman Begins.

Sydney

2005-06-18T19:25:00.000+10:00

I am having the raddest time in Sydvegas, I truly am. I have yet to be convinced to move here though and this is why:

-Attitude. So much of it. Not everywhere but enough to hurt. Can't you just fucking smile when you hand me your change? I smile at you.

-All anyone does here is drink. You'd think it was cold.

-Sydneyites are hard nuts to crack. Once you crack 'em though, you're in.

-Fashion. Sydney lacks individuals. There are about three looks in this town. It's like walking through a catalogue. And they are doing the eighties like no other place in Aus. Boring. The eighties should never have happened in the first place. (Eighties "fashion" that is. The music rocked! Some of it anyway.) I tried desperately to forget that decade. Why revisit it? Especially if you weren't there in the first place. Sadomasichists. 'Should be made illegal like smoking, it causes such offense and brings back nightmares.

-Incest. How many partners can you swap/steal before you start to feel truly weird?

-Prices. Everything costs more here: coffee, swimming, theatre, food that's anything above take away/cafe standard, public transport, even the music. I can't believe that most publicans rely on their punters to create and PAY FOR their entertainment and ambience by choosing music on the shitty selction on the juke box. Highway robbery. Get off your fuckin' lazy arses and take the profits from your spensy drinks and buy a CD or two or hire a DJ. Scum. And turn those bloody TVs off while you're at it. I wouldn't have come out if I wanted to watch TV.

Gee, getting a little upset here.

Here are reasons why I would move here:

-The weather. Need I say more?

-I have some wicked friends here.

-It's really, really pretty.

-I actually do have tonnes of fun here. Being an alchy is working for my new image anyway.

-I dig the surf.

-Got a great view. Wouldn't be able to afford it if I moved here though.

-Ummm...I'm struggling here.

-Just 'cause why not?

I'm boring myself to death here. Not in Sydvegas, in blog world. I'm going to endeavour for a while to write without lists and stop using the F word. Wish me luck.

I'm also going to sit on a deeper observation of Sydney for a while, 'cause this just sounds like a cheap slag off and I think highly of this fair (tanned) city. So I'll get back to you on that one with some insight.

Don't get over him/her, get even.

2005-06-18T13:43:00.000+10:00

Ah, sweet revenge. Nobody ever attatches other adjectives to revenge like bitter or green or wrong. Because it is sweet. Sweet like chocolate mousse sucked off a nipple. Sweet like tropical fruit salad in Thailand. Sweet like sweet sweet things in a sweet store.

There is something deeply satisfying and cleansing about revenge. Strange, coming from a tree hugging pacifst, I know but it's true. I'm not talking violence here. I'm not talking tying them up and making them eat dog food whilst watching you strip naked and fuck their best friend. I'm not talking cutting them up into tiny pieces and burying them in the forest. I'm not some kind of sicko. I just get a little kick out of making them suffer a bit. It kinda makes me smile.

Here are some suggestions that I have heard of over the years:

1. Borrow their car whilst they are "away on business" and drive it back and forth through the red light camera"

2. Unscrew the bed posts on their four poster, fill them with prawns and screw the brass knobs back on. They will never find the source of the smell and it will only get worse (better) over time. (I once did something similar to my sister when we were kids. Tired of her always having the last word or last kick in the stomach or scratch to eyeball, I thought I would steal the priviledge by pissing in one of her shoes and returning it to her cupboard. Brilliant.)

3. Stick his/her toothbrush up your arse or down then toilet, take a photo and leave the photo somewhere where he/she will find it AFTER brushing his/her teeth. Make sure you have left first and taken all your possessions with you.

4. Destroy his/her entire CD collection. (I almost did this once but missed my chance. Kicked myself for days but am pretty glad I didn't do it now or I wouldn't be back together with him now.)

5. This one is a beauty. Wait til he/she is out, bring the hose in the house and saturate his/her entire wardrobe, carpet, bedding and furniture, sprinkle the whole house with alfalfa seeds, turn up the central heating full blast, close all the doors and leave.

I'm telling you it works.

I take no reponsibilty, however, for any outcomes should you choose to try any of the above at home.

Good luck and may you not have any reason to seek revenge.

A Day Off on Pain Killers With Nothing to do Except Think About Stuff

2005-06-15T15:09:00.000+10:00

Some Things I Love:

-My new drug problem.

-Stationery and therefore newsagencies or office supply stores. Pens, notebooks...oh yeah, give it to me.

-Socks.

-The sea.

-Intelligence. Wish I had some.

-Old men. As in post 70. (Spare me the crass sexual inuendo please). They make me stop in the street and sigh and sometimes cry. I just adore them.

-My boyfriend.

-Free drinks.

-Love.

-My salty toothpaste.

-Sales at Alice Euphemia. Wish I was in Melbourne right now.

-Sleep. So good!

-Good dreams. Don't have many of them though.

-Italy, Ireland and India.

-Australia.

-Being so, so, so, so lucky - blessed from the very first day I arrived on this earth. I know I'm getting a little serious here but it's true. I couldn't ask for more and I am grateful for everything I have, daily.

-Pushing over old ladies on the train. Oh no, hang on, that was an accident.

-Lists.

-Myself.

Some Things I Truly Dislike:

-The fact that I can't work out how to change fonts etc.

-Rude people.

-Tom and Katie. Angelina and Brad. Spare me your fucking Hollywood teeth and love affairs. Who cares that you root like animals in African jungle bungalows. So? Me too.

-Bad journalism.

-The fact that I spend far too much time on my pooter now that I've been introduced to the Bloggesphere.

-Our "leader".

-Going to the doctor to get pain killers for my neck and having to get the same doctor who poked and prodded at my anus the last time I went in complaining of an itchy bottom. As if that wasn't humiliating enough. At least, I thought, I was never going to see him again.

-Fungal infections in my bottom.

-When people don't return phone calls.( Which means me sometimes).

-Television commercials.

-Most of everything on tele actually.

-Being disliked. Wish I didn't but I do. Still trying to come to peace with that one.

-Being threatened with a gun and more or less held captive by a psychotic, grandma and child bashing freak in Africa. Great stuff that is.

-When you pull over to give way to someone on a narrow street and they don't give you the wave.

-The word "fuck". Whilst I love it, it has been in my vocab since the age of two when I screamed accross a supermarket car park, "Look at that fucking old man!" much to my mum's utter embarassment, who covered me in her arm pit and hid me in the car pretending that a) I didn't exist and b) she didn't teach me that word in the first place. It is a beautiful word but has robbed me of the knowledge and use of many more interesting alternatives. I am endeavouring to learn a few new adjectives, adverbs, nouns and verbs 'cause somehow the f word has infiltrated all four areas of the English language and I am a victim.

-Waitressing.

-Procrastinating.

-Myself. Sometimes. Deep down. But not really.

Talent

2005-06-14T16:41:00.000+10:00

Do you have to be fucking crazy to be a genius?

I can't think of any brilliant actors, musicians, painters, sculpters, chefs, masseurs, bank clerks (scrap that one) who aren't/haven't been a drug addict, alchy, freak or just plain eccentric or hasn't at least had a serious nervous break down.

I think this is my problem. I truly believe that this is why I'm just mediocre (which is my worst nightmare - I despise mediocrity) and not incredible. I just can't crack the brilliant gate open. So I just sit here and kind of suck.

So, I think I need a crutch. Or a few problems.

I thought I'd start with smoking. I dunno if I'm brave enough to go down the smack street so maybe I'll start drinking more, like for breakfast and stuff and perhaps start taking other more filthy drugs like speed or crystal meth cause I can't afford coke. Or just go out into the desert and take stacks of acid. That oughta do it. Not too pricey either. But I'd surely lose it and could come back all intense and interesting and incredibly employable.

I say good bye to moderation. I want to be edgy and dangerous. I want to behave badly in public and get away with it. I want people to worry about me. But, more importantly, I just want to be brilliant. I want people to watch me and lose their breath and cry and shit. I don't want to be doubted. I don't want to be one of those cheesey fucking Secret Life of Us type actors.

I want to be a genius.

See yous cunts on the other side. x

Porn

2005-06-12T10:49:00.000+10:00

I hate porn.

There, I said it.

I have no time for it. I have no problem with people watching it or enjoying it, I just don't myself.

For a number of reasons;

a.) I just don't need to watch people having sex in order to get hot myself. My attractions and desires are strong enough and my imagination wild enough. I have a rich fantasy life which ranges from the cleanest, most romantic scenarios to the filthiest. I'll spare you the details (sorry) but let's just say that not one of those mentioned by Sass in her recent posting is foreign or unappealing to me. It's not that I don't like to watch people having sex; I do. Love it. Love a good sex scene (a good one), love a good voyeuristic perve on a bit of live action - it's all good. Just not porn.

I hate fake stuff!!!! Except a few of those fake colourings in cheezels and red liquorice. But fake people? Fake action? Yuk! Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. Saw a live sex show in Amsterdam and it couldn't have been less sexy. Touching and panting and penetrating by numbers, all in time to music. Yeah, I saw cock in cunt and boob on boob but there was no feeling there. Who cares? It made me so angry that I found myself stomping through Amsterdam just wanting to fuck someone, the words "I'll show 'em how it's done!" tearing through my head. Nothing going on down there but - totally unaroused.

b.) It's never turned me on.

c.) I'm an actor and there's nothing less sexy than bad acting. I can't get into it when I'm laughing at them. I can't get past the "puh-leeease" factor.

I also think porn has a lot to answer for. Breast enlargements, Brazilian hair removal, Viagra (performance anxiety), the cum shot, to name a few. Oh, and that old general expectation that women are there to please and we love it. We love it all...(here I go again. Just see last blog). Let's encourage a few time worn portraits of women being mindless pussy.

I also think there would be a lot of better lovers out there if men (and women for that matter) were allowed to discover their own sexuality rather than have it dictated to them by the poor teacher that is the porn. There's nothing worse than finding yourself in bed with someone who's learnt the routine from porn - and expects the reciprocal porn star action from you. So bad.

Ironically Darcy is my porn star name. Darcy Beaconsfield to be precise. My first cat (yes, ok, pussy) and first street. (I discovered this some years ago and later realised that Moubray was infact my first street name but it just didn't have the same ring to it, so I stuck to Beaconsfield.)

It might appear that I am a little preoccupied with sex and all things sexy and sexist at the moment. I am. I'm doing a lot of research for this fucking play I'm doing later in the year (sorry Roguey), which may be an utter disaster. But these topics are an endless source of fascination for me anyway.

Gentlemen

2005-06-10T16:09:00.000+10:00

Have just spent my lunch time in a "Gentlemen's Club" in the city and I must say it has left me very confused as to the definition of the word gentleman. Not to mention the role of women in the lives and minds of said gentlemen.

It seems to me that gentlemen can be identified by the following characteristics:

1. They wear suits or at least suit jackets.

2. They talk business whilst being entertained by writhing naked women, whom they frequently ignore, sometimes watch and occasionally applaud for a feat of athleticism or a nice rack.

3. They eat expensive meals and order expensive (only because they are over priced) alcoholic beverages.

4. They like to be served their drinks and food by scantily clad women, who will eventually strip naked for them on stage and whose breasts they are permitted to kiss and bottoms fondle as said scantily clad women sit on their laps and play the gracious hostess, as every woman should...apparently.

These four points seem to be the only ones that I could detect that set them apart from your common man. Apart from the expensive drinks in point 3.

It's interesting that the term "gentleman" doesn't quite describe the man that I had always imagined when I heard that word as a young'n'. So I guess I have been fooled all these years into thinking that a gentleman is something akin to what he used to be in ye olde days. I even thought I knew a few but perhaps they are something else. Perhaps there is another word for them..."special"? No, that has been appropriated by retards. They are rare however, and somewhat unique, these men. But certainly not retarded. However I'm sure there are retarded gentlemen - damn, I misused that word again. I'm stuck.

So a gentleman today, is not what he used to be. No, we have come a long way, from amoeba to amphibians to prime mates, Neanderthal (I'm jumping, obviously), Homo Erectus (still loads of erect homos around), through all ages of man: pre-Christian animal worshipping heathens, The Dark Ages, The Renaissance, Edwardian, Victorian...all the way through sexual revolutions to the sophisticated present day. At last, we are all grown up and equal.

For a while there we kid ourselves that "gentlemen" were respectful of all people, regardless of their sex, race or social status and that they viewed the world with an educated and well balanced mind and went about their day performing kind deeds and behaving in a generally gentle manner, hence the name. Not that they were pussies. Oh no - they would defend your honour in a duel to the death if push came to shove.

But now, in our post post modern world, we realise what a silly joke that was. A gentleman, in fact, is in everyway the same as who he was before he started walking erect on two legs, apart from the fact that he wears a suit and all that other stuff mentioned in the four above points.

Most men, however, regardless of whether or not they fit in to the above category, seem to like the same qualities in a woman. They don't always tell you that they do, but in secret, they do.

They seem to be:

1. Boobs. Doesn't matter if they are real or fake, as long as they are relatively perky, preferably above A cup and have nipples.

2. Long hair that you can fling around.

3. Pussy. Preferably not too hairy or not hairy at all.

4. Arse. Preferably perky, hair free.

5. Smiles. Big ones. Gotta love doing things for the gentlemen.

And she should perform the following functions:

1. Serve food and drinks at the beck and call of the gentlemen, wearing little and being available to be touched.

2. Smile all the time and make sure he has everything he wants.

3. Touch herself erotically.

4. Spread herself, thrust herself and shake herself in his general direction frequently so he knows she is up for it all the time.

5. Pout so it looks like she can suck cock.

6. Suck cock.

7. Be wet and hot for it all the time.

8. Root on cue, whenever he wants and don't expect a root when she wants one.

9. Be groomed, hairless, odour free and disease free.

10. Only wear clothes that accentuate the parts that gentlemen like, ie/short, tight, high heels, strappy everything, less is more etc. Comfort is a right reserved for gentlemen only.

11. Stay fit and slim and keep up to date with how gentlemen wish her to look.

12. Fuck, suck, shake, jiggle, dance, mount, lick, take it, clean, cook, say "thank you", shave, moan, sit, roll over, shut up.

13. Generally be subservient at all times, except when being dominant, which is being subservient anyway because it is what the gentleman wants (she must realise that her sole purpose is to make him happy) and generally attend to his every need with glee.

So, thank God I worked that out, 'cause I have to admit (and this is embarassing but I am naive) that I was under the impression that things had changed and gentlemen appreciated other qualities in women now. That the above were no longer an essential part of the equation. That women no longer had to fulfill all of the above criteria, but not so. I kind of suspected it from the age of about 12, but never really wanted to believe it. So I sort of pretended it wasn't true so I could feel safe in the cocoon of my comfy shoes and self respect. It's a bit like weening yourself off Santa. You know. You know you know but it was such a good story, you don't want to let go.

Strangely though, it is like a secret with gentlemen. It's code. Things are unsaid in these sophisticted times. So if they're not getting it at home from their wives/partners, they're going in secret groups to get it elsewhere. These such needs are catered for by Gentlemen's Clubs and other lesser versions of the same for the not so gentlemanly but still male. And if they're not attending such clubs they are watching it on DVD or looking at it in magazines or on the net. And if they're not viewing it in any of these widely available publications, they are having wet dreams about it. But they do want it.

So anyway, I'm getting with the programme. It's time to get ahead. I'm going to keep growing my hair long 'cause it doesn't flick so good yet and I'm going to get everything else below my nose waxed. I think I get it now.

The View is Beautiful Out Here

2005-06-09T20:06:00.000+10:00

We have talked about having sex on the balcony of our apartment ever since we got here but haven't done it yet. It will happen though. There are only about 700 windows in the surrounding high rise apartments, a shit load of boats on the harbour and a boat load of passers by on the street, so it's a little risky, yes. But risk is sexy. The cold is not. We got close one night...ah morning, just before sunrise. My boyfriend stripped down and challenged me to join him but I refused to expose my flesh to that cold, cold air. My body temperature had plummeted after the long hours of alcohol consumption and I was feeling like a pussy. But it will happen and I will be able to add it to my somewhat substantial list of public places where I have...

Why can't I get a decent coffee in this fucking town? Sydney that is. And why is it that when I complain about my second coffee after finally working up the guts to return the first my boyfriend tells me I remind him of his father and we don't talk for the next day and a half?

I have noticed that just because your mouth feels minty after eating half a pack of mint slices, it doesn't mean your teeth are clean.