Friday night.
1. Beastie Boys' To The 5 Boroughs 'listening party' at Alia bar. The crowd consisted somewhat sweetly of late twenties/early thirties fashionistas who once worshipped all things Beastie, but now prefer to show off record collections stacked with BB 'influences' . ("Yah, they totally ripped everything off early black hip hop artists , you know..." )
2. Forget what they say about Ladro being the best pizza in Melbourne. You'll find it in Brunswick at I Carusi .
3. Your Wedding Night at the Rob Roy. Kellie and Gen are so hot I don't know if I want to sleep with them or be them.
4. The sick, twisted genius of The League of Gentlemen screening at Wrong Club. Don't know the place? That's because it's my friend Dirty Derek's and it's secret and you have to go down a dark alley to get in and once you're in you can drink three dollar drinks until 6 in the morning. If you don't know The League of Gentlemen then you just deserve to die. Sorry.
1 comment.
It says married , doesn't it? It says that Drew Barrymore married Fabrizio Moretti. I'm trying to stem my sense of rising panic until I can confirm what is possibly life-changing information.
Slugger asked me last night what I'd do if I had twenty-four hours to live. I told him I'd want to eat incredible food surrounded by my nearest and dearest, bury my face in the dog's warm, soft stomach and root -
'Fabrizio' he interrupted. 'You'd want to root Fabrizio.' I gasped, not least because it wasn't what I was going to say (I was going to say, of course, that I'd want to root Slugger), but also because I hadn't considered the possibility that sudden death could better my chances with rock's sexiest drummer.* If you had twenty-four hours to live, and THIS FACT ALONE would get you closer to Fabrizio Moretti's penis, would you jump at the chance? After first thinking 'strap me on, Moretti', the logistics of it all started to sink in.
What if he was only doing it because I was like a Make-A-Wish kid and he felt sorry for me? What if I mis-timed it and died part-way through? What if it was all awkward because we hardly knew each other and it got all fumbly and rutty and like the time I had worst sex ever in Mooroolbark underneath flourescent lighting with a gaffer named Travis?
I think I'm better off not knowing.
* Apart from, of course, Shannon Vanderwert from Dallas Crane .
2 comments.
Ronald Reagan is dead.
When I paid my twenty dollars to be part of Celebrity Sweepstakes in January (the premise: pick three celebs who you think might leave this mortal coil in the next twelve months; whoever nabs first to die collects the prize money) I thought I was in with a shot at least. Joh Bjelke Petersen , Margaret Thatcher and Ron. At least two of them were in failing health and I could convince myself that I wasn't being completely morally bankrupt by participating in the comp because hey, I'd be happy if they died - even without winning three hundred and forty bucks - due to the fact they were wholly evil.
In January, Sir Joh goes a bit wobbly. Yes. Ronald is confined to his bedroom with only a nurse for company after ten years of Alzheimers. Come to mumma. And then what happens? Tony Randall carks it at 83 and Kynan's ex-girlfriend rakes in the bucks. There is no God.
The other picks from random friends and gamblers? As follows: The Pope, Graham Kennedy, Cat Power, Charlton Heston, Michael Jackson, Gough Whitlam, Stevie Wright, Jerry Lee Lewis, Rene Rivkin, Lou Richards, Roland S. Howard, Saddam Hussein, Eminem, Phil Spector, Willie Nelson, Kerry Packer, Richard Pryor, Kirk Douglas, Quentin, Lara Flynn Boyle, Gloria Stewart, Mick Gatto, Liza Minelli, Bill Collins, Marlon Brando, Bruce Ruxton, Fidel Castro, Andy Griffith, Elizabeth Taylor, Ozzy Osbourne, Woody Allen, Martin Landau, Mickey Rooney, Harry Morgan, Estelle Getty, Yassir Arafat, Walter Matthau, Dame Elisabeth Murdoch, Courtney Love, Ronnie Barker, Pinochet, Shane McGowan, The Queen, Cliff Richard, Richard Attenborough.
Yes, I am aware we're all going to Hell.
2 comments.
I don't know why, but somehow finding out that
Fred Durst has a blog takes the sheen off my euphoric rebirth as a blogger. If I may quote:
'what i want right now is to be touched. i am very sensitive when it comes to touch and smell. when my hands touch someone's skin, or their hands touch mine, i instantly feel a chemistry or i feel the complete opposite, no chemistry at all. this is with one touch....when i listen to mazzy star all i can think about is the way we could lye in bed for hours without speaking one word or doing anything sexual and just fit perfectly together without wanting anything in the world but to be together.'
Yes, he really wrote
'lye'.
And this is coming from the man who once had a giant toilet built into Limp Bizkit's stage show, which he climbed out of to demonstrate 'that this band is the shit'.
0 comments.
My birthday celebrations are now in their second week. To date, I have received a boogie board, the bulb of an oriental lily, a subscription to New Weekly and a plastic Jesus who, when wound up, raises his arms skywards as though bestowing a blessing. Whether this says more about me or the quality of the people I surround myself with, I'm not sure.
On Saturday I gathered a collective of ladies to descend upon a
beautiful Japanese spa complex for the night. I'd invited fourteen reasonably close female companions, but only eight turned up. The excuses ranged from 'can't afford it' (Jess and Lucy), 'my boyfriend's rehearsing all week and Saturday's our only night together' (Noon), to 'I just can't be bothered. You don't mind, do you?' (my mother). Sprawled out on Indonesian day beds collectively making the inimitable high-pitched turkey gobble that only a group of excitable women can make, we ate cheese in huge slabs and proceeded to get very fruity on fine wine and gin. SJ dropped into conversation the time she'd been seeing Mothership's boyfriend (they were on a break), and an uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. 'Oh come on,' I said brightly and drunkenly, as though cooking up an awfully fun scheme, 'who here has slept with each other's boyfriends? Let's talk about it!'
Perhaps if I'd suggested a quick round of Stroke My Flaps or Slice My Nipples With A Razor I may have received a more enthusiastic reaction. The more promiscuous of the mob paled noticeably. The girl to my left made a joke about sleeping with Tingles' boyfriend 'years ago' and Tingles bristled; news to her. SJ pointed out that it wasn't so bad that she'd slept with Mothership's boyfriend - after all, he'd also been with Gabi. Mothership made a pointed comment about Gabi's enormous breasts. I realised rapidly that the spirit in which I'd made the suggestion was perhaps not obvious to everyone else and slyly changed the topic. 'Hey, here's a laugh,' I said, somewhat desperately, 'who would play you in the movie of your life? Bags me Mira Sorvino!' (Look, it was better than SJ's go the next morning when she loudly asked a room of hungover women eating cereal: 'Who here has been raped? Just wondering!')
The evening was salvaged, as evenings are, and everyone staggered up the hill to climb naked into the spa and compare vagina waxes. When I told this to my beloved brother Glenny G he got a faraway look in his eyes and stopped listening to what I was saying. I knew that's what boys thought we got up to when we were alone.
0 comments.
The whores in the brothel next door to my work are listening to REM's 'Everybody Hurts' on their radio. I don't know if that's sick or beautiful.
That's what happens when you're reared on a diet of pop culture and Judy Blume.
1 comment.
As someone who is rejoicing in the sulky pubescent: 'That is so gay' revival, this letter to
Vice Magazine tickled me:
'GAY VS GAY
Dear Vice,
I notice your writers often call things "gay" and I believe it is usually used in a negative sense. I read in previous issues that you say you mean "gay" in a "grade four sense" meaning "lame". I don't agree that you only mean it as a synonym for lame. I've noticed you call many things gay that were definitely homosexual. So which is it? Are you pretending not to mean it so you can hate on queer culture with reckless abandon or are you too stupid to know the power of hateful words?
CORY REINER
San Fransisco, CA
Excellent question Cory. The truth is some things are gay (shitty and/or lame) some things are gay (homosexual) and some things are gay (both shitty and homosexual). For example, the movie As Good As It Gets was both gay (homosexual) and gay (shitty). The supporting actor's character was a homosexual and the movie was such a piece of gay shit, it's even kind of fun to watch it stoned. Ryan McGinley is gay (homo) but he's not gay (shitty). Being on Friendster is really gay but there's nothing homosexual about it. Defining gay is more of an art than a science.'
0 comments.
