Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Christmas Catalogue, Part 3

You know what's funny? Just the other night, I had a dream about Golden Retrievers.

(I know there is nothing more tiresome than hearing about someone else's dream so I'll be quick.)

I dreamt that my sister came back from a holiday overseas and announced, "I brought back Golden Retrievers for everyone!"

Then she steps to one side and you see these two minders, each with a couple of baby carriers strapped to their chests and backs. Each baby carrier has a half-grown, fluffy, fuzzy Golden Retriever pup, legs splayed (because baby carriers are not made for dogs, duh), barking and whining and wriggling in the most adorable way.

I was just about to reach out and choose one when MFC woke me up.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

Now, look at these blankets. I know they're Golden Labradors, not Retrievers, but, tomayto, tomahto. Long-haired tomayto, short-haired tomahto.

(It's OK, MFC has given me enough crap about this so you don't have to. He has two Golden Retrievers, remember?)


"Muuuuuuuuuuummy! She's trying to eat my brain!"
"Don't look into her cold dead eyes, son!"


Excuse me? Soft as a hwhat?

Dudes, this is a bit of a sweeping statement. I mean, there are some parts of puppies that aren't that soft. Their tongues, for example, and the underneath parts of their paws, and their intestines, WHICH THESE EVIL PUPPY SKINNERS HAVE PROBABLY SEEN.

Puppy fleeces? That's just pure evil. (Although, I suppose, much easier to acquire than Golden Fleeces.) And judging from the worried frowns on their little faces, I'm guessing a dark spell à la Voldemort probably enslaved their souls in those blankets too.

Enjoy your cursed blanket, little girl. I hope it was worth it!

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Christmas Catalogue, Part 2

You look at some of the things in this catalogue and it becomes pretty clear who the target audience is.

No, thank you, Auntie Grace. I don't need a hankie.
No, really. Yes, it DOES look Silky smooth.
Just . . . just put it back under your bra strap, where it came from.


And if you turn over a few more pages, you'll see this beauty.

The Monet? Phooey! Bundle it off to Good Sammy's!

If you really want to impress the Ambassador when he comes over for dinner, bring this baby out.

"When placed by a window at night, the slightest breeze will make
a soothing swaying effect as the soft cascades of light dance
before your eyes like glistening jewels."

Just reading the description makes my eyes glisten. Like jewels.


Daddy, is this where baby rose lights come from?

Christmas Catalogue, Part 1

I found this awesome catalogue at my parents' place, and it is now an integral part of my bedtime reading when I stay over.

Yes, I like reading catalogues before I go to bed. Let's move on, shall we?

So, I was idly flipping through this most excellent Christmas catalogue when this item caught my eye.

And lo, blog fodder for the next week was born.

Santa says, "Help! Help! Elves mugged me and left me in this tree made of poo(p)!"

Seriously. Have a closer look.

Poo(p).

Tree.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Have I mentioned

. . . how much I love getting comments?

People like dex, juliness, RaZeR, tfp, Genevieve, blandy, and many others who leave comments regularly - I love you guys. And I'm not even slurring drunkenly when I say it.

I was going to say something about how comments made me feel, but really about how nice comments make all bloggers feel good. Stuff about baskets of puppies followed by wreaths woven from kittens and sunshine. But that might have come across as too freaky.

In my strange way, I just want to say: You. Guys. Are. Just. Awesome.

Thank you so much!

Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry?

Update (22/02/2007): There has been a bit of confusion about this post. To clarify, Nathan Fillion has not YET taken on any of the forbidden roles. He was a pretty nasty villain in Buffy, and that fringe didn't quite do it for me, but he was still a sexy 6 on a scale of 1 to 10, so I'll let that one go.

You know, I have lamented in the past that people like Julia Roberts don't seem to have a lot of acting range, and just end up playing themselves in movie after movie.

I don't mind too much, because I actually like most Julia Roberts movies. (Don't tell MFC, he would die from shame.)

I have also openly expressed my admiration for actors like Hugo Weaving and Cate Blanchett who are marvellous chameleons, great Australian ambassadors (unlike a certain Ussell-Ray on the Owe-Cray) and apparently really nice folks to boot.

But Nathan, dear Nathan Fillion, I'm sorry.

I don't care how many years you went to acting school for, and that in order to GROW as an actor you need to tick the following roles off your checklist:

  • non-sexy villain,
  • nerd with buck teeth and giant glasses (and I'M a nerd with glasses, so you can see I feel strongly about this),
  • really fat guy (even if it is for some kind of Shallow Hal or The Insider movie),
  • really thin guy/emaciated P.O.W.,
  • bitter lonely hermit who hates everybody and makes Girl Scouts cry,
  • horrible upper-class dude who disses working-class types and gets his humiliating come-uppance later,
  • pervert with strange fetish for feet and peeing on people in the shower,
  • some kind of unwashed mountain man with a huge beard.
Just, no.

So, really, I'm afraid the only roles you have left are:

  • space pirate/cowboy,
  • charming small-town sheriff.

You can handle that, can't you?

Or do you really want to make an9ie cry?

Because every time an9ie cries, a Domo-kun dies. You wouldn't want that on your conscience, dude.

Silly tidbit #3

Today I remarked to myself, whilst enroute to the bathroom, that the word "hotel" also had the word "ho" in it.

And then I went to dance class and Gwit was wearing beige tights.

Coincidence? I think not.

Heroes: The Haitian mystery

Sorry guys, I'm kind of on a TV kick here at the moment. Moving on from Grey's Anatomy, which I'm sure you're all tired of me gibbering on aboot, let's chat for a bit about Heroes.

Heroes is one of our favourite shows. MFC and I watch it the way I watch HotKyle on Grey's Anatomy, like a starving . . . something . . . in front of a . . . something.

OK, so perhaps dance class fried my brain a bit tonight. Or Gwit's beige tights induced some kind of small aneurysm.

Anyhoo. Heroes.

I think it's very cleverly done, and much better than half-arsed predecessors like Mutant X, although I'm not sure* if it's better than Misfits of Science, which starred a young, telekinetic Courteney Cox. I believe it has one of the last documented sightings of Coxy with a healthy BMI, which is probably the reason why she never mentions it in any of her interviews.

I have a little gripe though.

Just a little one.

You know the hot dark guy who has the power to wipe people's memories?

Also known as "The Haitian"?

HOW THE (*&@# DOES EVERYONE KNOW THAT HE IS HAITIAN?

Most people haven't even talked to him and heard his accent! And yet everyone living in Texas, Los Angeles or New York knows his nationality.

Perhaps I'm just dim, but I can't tell, and I certainly don't recall seeing him wear any I heart Haiti sweatshirts in any episodes.

Telepathic Matt is a sterling example of this, when he roughs up Bennet a little and yells, "Where's the HAITIAN? WHERE IS HE?!?" or when he looks into space and tells wifey, "There was a . . . Haitian man in the bar. Just staring at me."

Honestly, does good old apple-pie Matt have a secret background we don't know about?

Did he have an old nursemaid called Tituba who used to sing him Creole hymns and feed him rice and beans? (Gross generalisation here, apologies to any inhabitants of the Antilles.)

I mean, unless someone has lived for a spell in Haiti and is familiar with its dialects and accents, wouldn't they be more likely to go "Where's the Caribbean guy?"

Or, if they came close to understanding the accent but made an honest mistake: "Where's the DOMINICAN?"

I suppose the people behind the show are trying to be culturally sensitive, and not saying "The black guy!" or "The brown guy!" or "The guy who may be an African-American but perhaps that is because I am a culture-insensitive Nazi who can't tell Indians from Islanders from Africans?"

But I would not look at him and go "OMG! That Haitian man just gave me a windchime!"

And certainly not in the same way that I would go "That Chinese lady took the last steamed bun!", because in metropolitan Perth someone who looks Chinese might very well be Indonesian or Vietnamese or Korean, and then the kimchee would hit the fan.

So, I've been dying to say this all day: Is this political correctness gone mad?

Or perhaps, unlike most of the population of Texas, I simply do not know a Haitian when I see one?


* The reason I'm not sure is because I was all of 9 years old then, and I thought shows like Diff'rent Strokes and Are You Being Served? were funny, so you can see how impaired my judgement would have been.

Dance dance revolutionary

Yeah, I have no idea what that title means either.

Just had my fourth hip hop dance class, which didn't suck as much as last week, because:
a) we had a competent teacher who didn't make us spend 15 minutes on unnecessary warm-ups just because she ate at McDonald's yesterday, and
b) GiWT (who I shall refer to hereafter as Gwit) was only wearing beige tights with beige shoes today, and did not make my eyes bleed.

Which is lucky, because she kept barging into my personal space and at one point I was tempted to clothesline her as she ran PAST the line I was in while "practising" one of her moves.

She was also being very distracting because while the teacher was explaining a routine, you could see her reflection in the front mirror JIGGLING AROUND AND NEVER KEEPING STILL.

RaaaaAAAAAAR!

Would someone please saddle this showpony and ride her out of town? Or better still, sell her to some rodeo clowns?

Don't spare the riding crop and spurs!

It's OK, Nathan

. . . as soon as HotKyle has done his comeback run on Grey's, and I've checked out his vitals in Friday Night Lights, I'll be right back to waiting for you to appear on Drive.

But you know what? Joss Whedon, would it kill you to get off your ar$e (and I mean that in the nicest possible way) and make some kind of space pirate TV series with Nathan Fillion and Kyle Chandler in it?

Would it, Joss?

Kisses!

Grey's Anatomy - It's all about HotKyle

Yep, I watched HotKyle with his HotSmile(TM) again this morning.

Why oh WHY did Shonda Rhimes have him blown up?
I hope he appears in the next episode.

I pray for it more than I pray for independence and a free market for Zimbopoland. Sorry, Zimbopoland.

Also, I found a couple of very cool Grey's Anatomy sites.

The first is Grey's Anatomy News, a blog that's full of spoilers and comments.

The second is Grey Matter, a blog that the show's writers,
and very frequently Shonda Rhimes, post at.

It's fascinating to get their take on how and why they wrote the episode that way, behind-the-scenes stuff, and a little more for us crazed fans to grab at when the episode's over.

And now I've found out that there's a Grey's Anatomy radio station as well. OK, now I think that might be taking it a bit far.

But it's nice to know it's there anyway :)

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

Grey's Anatomy, Season 3, Episode 16 - Drowning on Dry Land

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

A-buh. A-buh-buh.

KYLE CHANDLER!!!

Any Australian fans should stop reading now, because you will see a spoiler about the latest Grey's Anatomy episode that was shown in the US and be all pouty.

Update: I just got in trouble with Em because she read this next bit anyway. So it will be whited-out now, and you have to select it to read.

***SPOILER STARTS HERE***

Who cares if Meredith is dead? As far as I'm concerned, they could start a brand new show called "Kyle and Meredith play smoochies in Purgatory" and I'd still watch it.

I saw the ending on YouTube at lunchtime, and was so excited, because we see HotKyle Chandler doing a slow HotSmile(TM) at Meredith.

***SPOILER ENDS HERE***

But I couldn't squeal out loud because I was surrounded by people. And then I nearly dry-retched from containing all my excitement. Except it wouldn't have been that dry, because I'd just had some instant noodles followed by orange juice.

Welcome to the freak, that is me.

Oh, and then, I kept rewinding and doing a slow-mo step thing so I could watch HotKyle's HotSmile(TM) again.

And again.

And again.

I could do this all day, people!

Chinese Festivals - Chap Goh Meh

Sunday the 4th of March is the 15th day of Chinese New Year. It is also a festival celebrated by the Hokkien community in Penang, Malaysia (and possibly the Hokkien community in other parts of Asia).

Some people call it Chinese Valentine's Day, but this just shows that they don't know much about the Chinese, who are about as romantic as sea anemones.

Sea anemones who really, really, really like gold.

Anyway, during Chap Goh Meh, unmarried women go and throw oranges in the sea (or river) and wish for good husbands.

In the old days (i.e., before HotorNot.com), this was one of the few occasions where they were allowed out of the house, and the young men in the town could have a peek at them. They were usually accompanied by fierce aunties and old nursemaids, but I doubt that this would have dissuaded any young Lotharios.



I would like to promote an updated version of this festival, where women get to take a 2kg bag of citrus fruit to the beach, and hit the men they like on the head with oranges until they pass out. Playground rules. You concuss 'em, you keep 'em.

And it's better for the environment :)

Cartoon by an9ie. Furtive pen on notepad paper, orange coloured in digitally.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Conversation smut

Updated (22/02/2007): This post has been edited. A certain Admiral Spoilsport said I made most of the conversation up. Pffft.

Before I forget, Happy Chinese New Year to everyone! I had a whole post lined up for the New Year, but I still need to find a picture to go with it, so you'll just have to deal with this bit of smuttiness for now.

For some reason, this afternoon, I ended up talking to [SOME ANONYMOUS PERSON or SAP, and don't look at me, I was just as surprised as you were when I saw the acronym] about how much escort girls got paid. This may be a bit risqué for some, so please don't read if easily offended*.

an9ie: So, this website says they get $190 for an hour, and $260 for two hours. Holy crap!
SAP: It's just sex.
an9ie: Really? But $190?
SAP: I hear blow jobs are about $50.
an9ie: Don't people think about how many . . . other people have been inside these ladies before them? And gone . . . ewww?
SAP: Well, duh.
an9ie: If I were paying $190, I'd want a virgin.
an9ie: But one who knew exactly what she was doing and was really good at it.

Actually, screw that. If I'm paying $190 I'd at least want my car waxed, my gutters cleaned and all the bats gone from the roof space. Hop to it, young lady!


* Because then, well, you'll be offended and it'll be a big old damper on your day. Also, I don't have any chocolate compensation biscuits to give away right now.

Saturday, February 17, 2007

Rottnest Channel Swim cancelled

I was meant to work at the Rottnest Channel Swim this morning, but it's been cancelled.
Darn! There goes part of this month's payment for those damn glamour shots.

The weather had been a bit iffy all week, so it was about 50-50, but when I rocked up to Cottesloe Beach this morning at 5am, there was no doubt about it.


Nobody's starting today.

I felt sorry for people who had travelled from Melbourne and Brisbane to do this race.

There were even some visitors from Japan. Imagine coming all the way from Japan and being told the race was cancelled!


Come on, dear, we've travelled such a long way for this. Just have a little go! Maybe 4 or 5 kms and then decide . . .


See! Those waves don't look high at all!


Em and I got our photos taken for the Community Newspaper. Caption: "Concerned organisers look worriedly at the crowd!" I realised I had a big smile in the first few photos, so I toned it down and looked suitably worried. Then I went back to my sweet bed. Mmm, bed.

Luigi the Cat and some random stuff

Last week I dropped MFC off at his mate Craig's place so they could go to the Isis concert together. Isis are like experimental rock metal something something, a bit too complex for a pleb like me. 

And I wanted to go to bed early. With my knitting and milk 'n cookies.

As we drove up, the most amazing sunset hove into view. 
It was like those Technicolor marvels from Gone With The Wind.



Craig's girlfriend has adopted the sweetest little cat. His name is Luigi (Craig explained that they wanted a Big Italian name). Even MFC, who is decidedly a dog-person, liked him. Luigi is very friendly and will plop himself winsomely on your lap for cuddles. He'll start purring if you even look at him from across the room :)


Am I not the most adorable thing you have ever seen?


Well, amn't I?


Tuna . . . you will bring me TUNA . . .

Craig likes to throw him across the floor (like a bowling ball) at the other cat, and he purrs loudly while he's swinging in the air. If you had a cat-human translator handy, I think all you'd hear Luigi say is: ''Oh boy! OH BOY!", "Loves you! Now you loves me back!" and "Ooh! Sparkly!"

Some other people were there and they asked me why I wasn't going to the concert. I just smiled and shrugged. As MFC said good-bye to me I felt a bit of chigga coming on.

an9ie: Holla holla holla!
MFC: THAT is why you're not going to the concert.

Friday, February 16, 2007

Answer me this, Bongo!

Have you guys heard of AskBongo? It's a bit of a fad here in the Antipodes at the moment. Nathan and Nat from Nova 93.7 were talking about it on the radio earlier this week.

If you have a burning question about something, you send a text message to a special number, and within 5 to 10 minutes they send you a text back with the answer.

Personally, I think Bongo is just some canny nerds with Broadband internet and Google. But apparently the stuff they come out with is pretty accurate.

One girl who called up the radio station said that she asked Bongo the name of Lleyton and Bec Hewitt's unborn child, and a guy called her back saying, "Don't tell anyone, but it's Mia." And then one week later Woman's Hourly or whatever it is came out with an "exclusive" on the baby and its name. Lo, Mia!

Hmm.

Do you think they could answer this question?

Who dies in the next Harry Potter book?

I could pay $3 to ask, or just wait a few months. Guess which one I'm going to do? Because I'm cheap! 

Silly tidbit #2

This happened in the middle of the work week . . .

Late in the afternoon, I notice that during my lunchtime chocolate frenzy, I have dropped chocolate crumbs onto my lap. These crumbs have melted into fetching brown blobs. Around the groinal region.

HOW LONG HAVE THEY BEEN THERE?!?

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Tall Poppies! Where's my scythe?

Sorry guys, you may have to click on the picture to enlarge it a bit.
Also, if you haven't seen Bring It On, "spirit fingers" will make no sense to you whatsoever :)


Perhaps I am a little scarred from past experience, but I am extremely wary of people who say they "dance". By this, I mean people who have dabbled in dance, but do not do it professionally. Professional and/or accomplished dancers that I have met are usually quite self-effacing.

Dabblers, on the other hand, tend to be very showy, even show-ponyish. They strive to monopolise everyone's attention, brag loudly and boorishly about past dance events, and perform unasked-for mini-recitals at the drop of a hat. Any hat.

At parties they will take over the centre of the dance floor and execute elaborate dance moves that threaten your eyesight and sanity. Expansive hand gestures and flourishes, smouldering looks, toe-pointing, shoulder-throwing, back-arching, high kicks . . . the litany of atrocities goes on. Meanwhile, you're thinking, Dude, I just came here to get drunk and do the Robot!

I remember being at a certain party with Nicky and observing such behaviour, which made Nicky remark, "I don't know if I should applaud or throw money!"

Luckily, after midnight the show ponies wandered off somewhere else (audience was dwindling) and we got to do the drunken Robot on the deserted dance floor after all. Hee!

Anyway, back to my story . . .

SO. As you can imagine, when I got to the third session of my hip hop ADULT BEGINNERS dance class yesterday (I've capitalised those words for a reason), and found a show-pony dance dabbler locked into the front and centre position, I rolled my eyes so far back that I could see my medulla oblongata.

See, usually, I enjoy this class. There are a lot of everyday people there, big and small and medium girls (and one guy who does the whole class with a big grin on his face :). Normal people, like you and me, who just like hip hop and want to learn a routine to use at clubs or parties.

For me, the icing on the cake is this super-perky Filipino lady in her 40s, who throws herself into the class with reckless abandon and is everybody's best friend. If something is a little tricky she will look around and make eye contact with someone (usually me) and screech, "Aaah! Too hard!", but then gamely try to break-dance anyway.

It's a relatively level playing field. We're not pros, and we don't assume that we'll ever be pros. We just want to have fun and not look like total tools at the next party we go to. This is not the casting call for Cats.

And then GiWT showed up.

First of all, GiWT arrived, in 35 degree (Celsius) weather and an un-airconditioned studio, wearing shorts with black shoes . . . AND WHITE TIGHTS. Hence the name GiWT (Girl in White Tights).

Before class started, she went off by herself and sat in the deserted front studio to do some "special" (I can only presume) stretches. When the instructor arrived, she immediately took up the front and centre position, as I mentioned before.

As class progressed, and we swapped lines so people could have their turn near the front, I noticed that whenever GiWT went past a mirror, she would pause, look intensely into her own eyes (I SWEAR I am not making this up), do a little head flick, and then spin around into her "ready postion" (legs spread and spirit fingers ready), with one leg pulsing to an imaginary beat.

In the lulls where the instructor was showing us the next moves, or when we split into groups of two, and one group watched while the other danced (or attempted to :), GiWT would launch into her own special take on the dance moves, but in that self-conscious I-am-a-première-danseure kind of way.

When we danced as a group, she would take extra long jumps to the side, despite us being crammed into our lines and trying our best not to hit each other. Sigh.

I mean, really, lady, if you think you are a professional dancer, PLEASE go to a professional studio and show your pony off there. Give it a good gallop if you want. There is really no need to grace us lowly beginners with your bludgeoning burgeoning talent.

I fondly imagined the following dialogue:

GiWT: "Oh, tralalala! Terpsichore, muse of dance, fills me with her magic! It is spilling out and I must express it!"

an9ie: "Yeah? Well, express yourself somewhere else. Melpomene* wants you to shut it."

GiWT: "But my wellspring of inspiration! It runneth over! I must show EVERYONE my talent!"

an9ie: "Oh lawd. Do NOT make me ask Thalia** to set up a turkey slapping for you. Because I will DO it, sister."

Actually, this is a bit of a long shot. Let's replace "Terpsichore" with "Fiddy Cent", and "wellspring" with "Candy Shop" instead. There, that's more realistic! Hee!

* Muse of tragedy
** Muse of comedy and bucolic poetry ***
*** Hooray for Wikipedia!

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

Happy Valentine's Day!

Zandria has paid me the enormous compliment of quoting me in her post about Valentine's Day. Who needs flowers and chocolates when there's the Internet and the mutual admiration society? Woo! ^_^

If you'd like to read the text of the post that she quoted from, please go here to read "A Valentine's Day Story".

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

The Tiger Lillies, Beck's Verandah, Perth Concert Hall


They're the ones with the white painted faces.

Last night MFC took me to the Tiger Lillies as an early Valentine's Day present. We don't take The Day too seriously, and I certainly wouldn't throw a tanty if I didn't get anything, but it's a nice excuse to get each other presents.

Heck, if I were single right now, I'd probably get myself a V-Day present anyway, and it would probably be a lot more extravagant* than the one I've given MFC (tickets in the first three rows to see Dylan Moran in April :)

It was on Beck's Verandah, an outdoor area in the concert hall, made cosy with sofas and platforms.

Beck's Verandah at intermission.

When the Tiger Lillies started their performance, I thought I'd been kidnapped and locked in the Red Room from Twin Peaks. You know, the one in the Black Lodge? With the dancing dwarf? Where everyone speaks in riddles and funny voices? If you don't remember this room by now, my heart bleeds for you poor souls deprived of David Lynch's magic/LSD trips.

It's called a montage! (Montage!)
Actually, I'm not really sure if this is a montage . . .


I couldn't tell if the vocalist's painted-on smile was red or black. His facial contortions emulated pain and joy, usually at the same time. Not someone you'd like to be locked in a dark room with . . .

What surprised me most was the music. When I hear the word "cabaret", I think of a feminine presence. Liza Minelli, and sultry women in dark bars. I was surprised at how effectively this all-male group pulled it off. The songs changed on the turn of a pin, from raucous, ribald, and offensive to sensitive, beautiful, haunting.

A warning here, to the meek. Do not go to see the Tiger Lillies if you're easily offended. Their songs incorporate themes of sodomy, zoophilia, rape, murder, incest, suicide; the whole spectrum of human depravity.

It's amazing how music can disguise ugliness. If someone spoke the words of the lyrics to me, in conversation, I would be appalled. Instead I was slightly discomfited, but almost too mesmerised to care.

I certainly didn't applaud at the end of "Banging in the Nails", a song about the crucifixion, although I appreciated the rollicking beat of the music. What annoyed me more was the way some of the audience reacted to the song.

There was a group of people that we met up with there, friends that MFC and I mostly see at parties. Most of them are atheist, which is fine by me, each to his own, but some of them are fiercely, arrogantly, in-your-face atheist. Actually, they're more anti-God than atheist. They basically think Christians are self-deluding morons, and go on the offense if the topic of religion comes up. Not very tolerant or enlightened, if you ask me.

At the end of "Banging in the Nails", there was a palpable pause, and then some clapping, but the people with us seemed to over-react, cheering and hooting like howler monkeys. It sounded childish and spiteful to me. I mean, you don't see Christians going, "Blow up the Void! Yeah, atheists suck!"

Sheesh.

I'm not saying blasphemy is OK, but it has its uses. It made me examine why I disapproved, and gave me a little shake, in the midst of my complacency. Still, when vegetarians, who say they can't bear for animals to be hurt, start cheering wildly at the thought of a man having nails driven through his limbs, you'll forgive me for rolling my eyes a bit.

I think I mostly preferred their ballads, although if the concert had been all mournful ballads it would have all been a bit too emo. A song about witnessing a death under the blood red moon made the hairs on my neck shiver, and another tune about the protagonist having hamsters shoved up his bottom and rupturing his colon brought to mind crass school boys trying to out-shock one another.

"Mostly obvious," I heard a stranger mutter behind me in a blasé tone of voice, at the conclusion of the hamster song.

And then a song about suicide made me cry.


It started with, "You cut your throat," and in the middle was a line was about trying to get into heaven, "God you can't get in." Like that, with no commas. At the end of the song, a bubble broke inside me and to my surprise, two tears crept slowly down my cheeks. The wind dried them quickly.

It all went by in a whirl: sex with flies, kicking babies down the stairs, pimps and whores, decay, time, murder, torture, transvestites, amputees, masturbation, sung in a beautiful, pure falsetto or a brutish growl, with crystal enunciation, sometimes with delicate piano accompaniment, or mournful musical saw. Most often with an accordion that seemed to have a voice of its own.

The Tiger Lillies work as a cohesive group, and so they should, with a partnership spanning more than a decade. Martyn Jacques, the vocalist/accordionist/pianist is the circus ringmaster. He cracks his voice like a whip, driving the other two relentlessly before him.

The drummer, Adrian Huge, is the clown, alternatively mocking and servile, and is marvelously dexterous, both on the drums and in juggling the toys that he uses to illustrate the music. I've never seen anyone playing the drum with a rubber baby doll before.

Adrian Stout is the calm that keeps them from flying off into the ether. His double bass provides a strong, grounding foundation to their counterpoint and rhythm.

It was an incredible show, but I don't know if I could see them again for a while. It was like being thrown into the deep end of a wine vat. I'll certainly be looking out for their music on CDs and the Internet though.

My apologies if this review sounds elaborate and sentimental, but it seems you can't see the Tiger Lillies without faffing on like a Byron-esque baroque fanboy.

And I didn't know you could play a saw more beautifully than a cello!

The end.

* This is a person who gave herself a week's holiday in Margaret River as a birthday present last year. Mmm, a fabulous present for the one I love. Me. 

Sunday, February 11, 2007

Argh!

And for some reason Blogger will not put my text into proper lines! It looks like bad comtemporary poetry! Gah!

Fresh figs


I plucked these not five minutes ago from the tree in MFC's backyard. I picked as many as I could carry without a bag, and the front of my shirt is sticky with milky sap.

The sweetness is almost treacley, and needs to be tempered with some sharp cheese, such as my best friend here.

Last week, at the supermarket, I saw that figs were $1.49 a-piece. MFC! MFC! We are sitting on a goldmine!

Thursday, February 08, 2007

Plastic surgery

My brother was telling me about the following scenario that made news around the world:

Man and beautiful woman meet.
After a whirlwind courtship, they marry.
Woman gives birth to ugly baby.
Man is . . . surprised.
Woman confesses she had extensive plastic surgery.
Man divorces her and sues her for thousands of dollars.

Turns out it's old news from 2004, but still, an interesting tale. Worthy of Shakespeare, or at least Melrose Place. Anyway, according to the link I found about it from ChinaDaily.com:

SHANGDONG

Plastic surgery divorce

HEGANG - A husband has received 1 million yuan (US$124,000) compensation and a divorce from his wife who had concealed having had plastic surgery before their marriage. Her secret was revealed when she gave birth to a baby girl on September 1 last year. To the astonishment of her husband, the baby was ugly and totally different from him and his "beautiful" wife. The husband suspected his wife of having an affair with another man when he was away on a business trip and insisted on having a DNA test with the baby. The woman was forced to tell him the truth about her plastic surgery.

I'm wondering if these two people deserve each other. And what about the poor baby? 

Sunday, February 04, 2007

I love doxies/Meeting Chopper

While Em and I were at work yesterday, we spotted a lady with a dachshund walking towards us.

an9ie: OH MY GOD! A DACHSHUND!

Nice lady pauses and smiles.

an9ie:
CAN I PET HIM? (Offers hand and rubs dachshund under chin.)

Dachshund (glares at an9ie): You disgust me.

I felt like Elmira from the Looney Tunes cartoons. Poor Elmira! So much love to give, but no takers.

Nice lady: Do you think it would be alright for me to use those toilets over there? (indicating chemical toilets put out for triathlon).

an9ie: SURE! WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO HOLD YOUR DOG FOR YOU WHILE YOU GO?

Nice lady: Um, OK, I was wondering where I would leave him. Here you go (hands over leash).

an9ie: What's his name?

Nice lady: Chopper.

Chopper: You . . . have . . . GOT to be *&^%ing kidding me.

She gave me Chopper's leash, and he gave it a small desperate tug as he saw her walking away. When he discovered that attempts to escape were futile, he went and sat down as far away as his leash would allow. See how much tension there is on the leash?


Chopper thinks, Blech, I feel defiled.

So I got Em to hold Chopper's leash while I took some photos.

an9ie: Yoohoo! Chopper! Look over here!

Chopper (refuses to make eye contact): Get away from me, devil- woman!


Please come back, Mummy! I promise to be good!


This patch of grass that some other dog has peed on is WAY more interesting than you. 

Sigh, I miss having a dachshund.

Saturday, February 03, 2007

How to fill me with blood rage


 

Why oh WHY can't people put their shopping trolleys back?

This shopping centre is particularly small, so it was, like, 5 metres to push them out of the way of cars. They even have wheels, people! We're not asking you to load them on your backs and trek across to Mordor to throw them into the Crack of Doom.

Instead, meatheads just push them willy-nilly into parking spaces, so you car won't fit in.

This makes me cross because once I returned to my car to find that one had rolled over to my driver's side door and dented it. Grrr . . .

Thursday, February 01, 2007

My potted week (except no pot was involved in this week)

Quick note: Notice how some the lines in some paragraphs are really short? Blogger has been playing up. I don't know what's going on. Sorry guys!

I know I've been quiet this past week, guys, and I do apologise. I've been dashing here and there, between MFC's house and my parents' place and my house, too knackered to set up my laptop at any of them, and now I've just realised that tomorrow will be Friday again and I haven't posted a thing!

I could post from work, I guess. They're all typed up in a text file and ready to go, but I don't want to be Dooced! How will I pay for those damn glamour shots THEN?

Anyway. Holy crap! Where does the time go?

I think I remember what I did last week.

Saturday: Dropped parents off at airport, this time making sure that they had the RIGHT passports. Very hot day, about 40 degrees C (104 degrees F). Go back to parents' house, get Mao (little bro's rabbit), and take him to MFC's. Spend most of day at MFC's house on Playstation 2 with Final Fantasy X (FFX). MFC thinks hero (Tidus) in FFX looks like a girl. I agree. And Yuna (the girl) looks a leeetle tranny-ish. Hmm.

Sunday: Hot again. 40 degrees C ++. A bushfire breaks out in Kenwick and about 200 homes lose power. Luckily we're not one of them. Cook a delicious 3kg leg of mutton*. Make the most delicious gravy in the world to go with it. Spend more of day in FFX fug.

Monday: Work. Boo! Afterwards check parents' house is OK and water plants. Go for walk with housemates. Return exhausted. Obviously have body of 90-year-old**. Fall into bed.

Tuesday: Ooh, four Diana Wynne Jones books that I've requested from the library have arrived. Go to parents' house and water plants. Arrive at MFC's exhausted. Obviously plants have got the better of me. Read Conrad's Fate for a little and fall into bed.

Wednesday: My first hip hop dance class at the Dance Workshop! Whee! Yay! Instructor is perky but nice. There are so many people that we form into 5 lines of 6. Warm-ups are insane, my arms, legs and arse are burning and we haven't even started learning the routine! When we start dancing and "popping" our butts out, I can't help looking at the woman in front of me. She is wearing tight pants and unsupportive underwear. My eyes!

Thursday: Today I finally get my act together and do some blogging. The effort is pitiful, but hello! Here I am! My eyes are burning with sleepiness but the flag is still flying!


* MFC and I try to eat mutton instead of lamb because we don't feel comfortable eating babies toddlers. Please do not send me any pro-vegetarian messages about how I should not be eating their parents either. We love meat. Love. It.

** I was going to say "80-year-old", but two weekends ago I saw an 83-year-old at a Swim Meet who swam 1km in freezing ocean water and made damn good time. Obviously MUCH fitter than me.

Silly tidbit #1

While composing a technical document, I keep mistakenly typing "hard disk" as "hard dick".

At one point I type in "hard dick test" and have to stop and scrunch up my eyes to silently giggle.